Marroc's Tale, Part 1: ShortLived Childhood
by Hippy Hobbit
Summary: COMPLEATED Marroc Took, younger cousin of Peregrin Took, goes through the challange of living in a world where everything isn't always perfect. WARNINGS: Child abuse and very much angst
1. Marroc

Marroc's Tale   
By   
Hippy :) Hobbit  
~*~*~*~  
Those that lived near the Old Forest were always said to be a bit 'odd', but the small   
family of Tooks' that lived right on the boarder of the wood, were ranked among the oddest.  
  
Tarroc Took had taken his new wife there to a small hobbit hole right on the beginning of the Withywindle path shortly after they had wed. Being rather much of a loner from the rest of the Took clan, Tarroc and his wife kept to themselves most of the time- well, at least away from the other hobbits.  
  
Elves, Men and sometimes Dwarves came along the roads of the Old Forest once and a while, and Tarroc found himself enjoying the company of the wide travelers more then that of his kin. His (rather eccentric) son, Marroc adopted the same traits from his father.  
  
Marroc Took was always a good lad.   
In his parents' eyes.  
  
He never saw much of his cousins, except for the Brandybucks, but few of them ever assorted themselves with him. He had never even met his Took cousins till he was about the age of 6, nor did most of the Shire know that Mr. Tarroc Took and Ms. Maggie Brandybuck had wed and started a family.   
  
His father had disappeared from the Took household for a while, and everyone thought he had gone off on some adventure, like his great uncle Hildibrant, and would never return. Little did they know that Tarroc had been sent away by the Thain, in order to restore piece to Tookland, so, he had gone to Brandyhall to stay with his favorite cousin, Saradoc. Then, after falling in love with and marrying Maggie, went to live on the boarders as a bounder. And then, along came Marroc.  
  
But Marroc was never lonely though. Like his father, he found his friendships with the taller folk. The Elves had given him the lovely nickname of "Phreinnith raa" (little lion) and the Men just called him 'Sparkplug'.  
And quite the sparkplug Marroc was.  
  
Quite.  
  
Sugar did unbelievable things to the lad's energy. Yep. Unbelievable. And his older friends (and sometimes cousins) were always giving it to him (his cousins only did it to make their aunt Maggie angry).  
It was very rare that his mother would be able to get him under control. These times only consisted of when he was sleeping, studying or...  
...well, there was really no other time, unless you counted when she rubbed his back, which always calmed him, no matter what; however, the whole point was catching him in order to do this.  
~*~*~*~  
  
And so, anyway, our story takes us to a few weeks before the lad's 6th birthday. Marroc was heading to Tookland, for the first time, all by himself. His father had fallen out of a tree the day before, and couldn't make the journey to purchase a goat from his dear cousin, Paladin, with the 'dear' stressed, of course.   
  
Tarroc and Paladin had never gotten over a senseless feud they had had when they were tweenagers. In fact, they probably couldn't even remember what it was about, but if you asked Paladin, he would say it was Tarroc's fault, and if you asked Tarroc, he would say it was all Paladin's evil doing. Paladin did many evil things, according to Tarroc. If the cows didn't give milk, Tarroc would scorn and curse his cousin's name to the heavens. If Marroc-Lad (as he was always called by his da) caught a wee head cold, or so much as the sniffles, Tarroc was determined that Paladin was to blame. Even if he stubbed his toe, Maggie would cover her mouth and silently giggle, covering her son's ears, as her husband stumbled around their hobbit-hole, screaming  
'PALADIN YOU DUNG-EATER!! I'M GOING TO GET YOU BACK WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT! YOU'LL NEVER KNOW WHAT HIT YOU!'   
Then, Marroc-Lad would look up at his mother, and ask in a timid whisper:  
'Da's gone mad, hasn't 'ee?'  
Anyway, as aforementioned, Marroc was off on his way to buy a goat from his Uncle Paladin. This may seem odd, seeing as how his father hated Paladin so much; however, Marroc-Lad was a goat fanatic. He loved goats so much that his old Ruby had run off in fear of the lad. Yes, Ruby the goat hated Marroc's constant hugging, cuddling and raw obsession SO MUCH, that HE had run off to a fate unknown, leaving the little hobbit's heart in pieces.  
Now, money was not something that was rare in this family, so Tarroc could have gone out and bought Marroc-Lad a new goat in no time; however, Tarroc was a good father, who believed that everything his son had, he had to earn it.  
"Marroc-Lad," Tarroc said, in his deep voice, as though giving orders to an army, "Oi know yewr Ruby ran off, and yew want another playmate, but oi'm gonna 'ave ta make yew work for it. Yew'll get no where in this world if yew don't learn to earn things for yewrself."  
"Yes Da."  
"So, oi need to go away for a week. There 'ave been reports of wolves 'round Sackville, and the Theein wants meh ta check it all out."  
"Yes Da."  
" Oi want yew to help your mum in the garden, since it be almost time ta harvest the taters, an' oi want yew ta milk the cows every morn."  
"Yes Da."  
"If Oi come back an' yer mum says yew been good an' you did everything Oi told you to, Oi'll buy yew another goat friend."  
"Yes Da!"  
  
This made Marroc understandably happy, and, indeed, he held up his end of the deal very well. Or as well as a 5 year old could, which meant of course he needed more then a little help from his mother when milking the cows, though he was very eager to get up in the morning and do it, and that's what Tarroc was looking for- a proper work ethic  
  
And so, Tarroc had gone to his cousin Saradoc for help in finding a 'fwiend' for his boy. The Master was no help at all (being rather drunk at the time), and to make matters worse, the next week, he had told Paladin (over a spot of tea), that a dear friend of his was looking for a goat for his lad. He didn't mention any names.   
Now, it just so happened that Paladin had a ram that he was hankering to get rid of. And so, Tarroc agreed that Marroc could buy Paladin's goat. But HE, Tarroc would be the one to go to Tookland and HE would be the one to check out the goat and HE would be the one bringing it home.  
  
But most unfortunately for Tarroc's plans, gravity attacked (which, OF COURSE he blamed on Paladin), and so Marroc would be setting off alone to Tookland, much against his father's wishes. Very much against them.  
  
He had wanted Saradoc's son, Meriadoc, to go with Marroc to Tookland, but Merry (as he was commonly called) refused to do anything with Marroc unless he could put a leash on him. Tarroc said that would be fine, but Maggie (understandably) put her foot down on it.  
  
It wasn't a problem for Marroc though- being alone didn't bother him at all. He was the only company he needed sometimes (no really. The lad could talk himself to sleep).  
He set out early on the morning of Wedmath 1, in the year 1396 (by Shire reckoning), about three weeks before his birthday. The sun was shining its brightest, though not hot enough to burn Marroc-Lad's neck as he skipped happily upon the beaten path towards...well, wherever he was going. It wasn't like he really knew where exactly it was, but that didn't dampen his spirits. He was getting a goat, and as far as it concerned him, that was the best thing in the world!  
It wasn't long before he came upon a scene. About 10-hobbit lads were crowded around something- or someone. They were jeering and laughing in a way that made Marroc feel rather uncomfortable. His un-natural and at sometimes stupid Tookish curiosity told him firmly to check it out.  
So he did.  
He skipped jovially over to the group. Some looked at him, but most were still focused upon the center of attention. The biggest of all of them was up front, his fists balled up. He was probably about 4 years older then Marroc. Black curls framed a pudgy, red face, and squinted beetle black eyes peered out- at another lad, who was sprawled out in front, shivering with fright. Blood spewed from the smaller lad's nose, onto a scarf that was green and way too big. The elder hobbit-lad laughed, a menacing evil laugh that pierced through the nice summer day like a hot knife through butter. The smaller lad gave a whimper.  
  
"Wot's wrong, Poopy Pippy?" the ebony-haired lad asked in a taunting laugh, "are you scared of me?" the rest of the hobbits (save Marroc) burst into laughter.  
"N-n-no! Oi'm nor-rra scared of...yew! Moi daddy's gon-gonna be the Theein!" said 'Poopy Pippy'. "A-an-and someday, Oi'll be the Theein too, and Oi'll-oi'll get yew for-for this!"  
This only caused them to laugh harder.  
"Your daddy ain't your REAL daddy you know?!" jeered the bigger boy.  
"'ee isn't?"   
"NO!" said a near by hobbit with sandy brown hair "'ee's not! Your uncle said that your daddy could be the Thain if 'ee had a son, so your daddy went and bought you off some tramp, just so 'ee could be the Thain!" all the others burst out into laughter again and timid sobs could be heard from the younger lad.   
Marroc didn't like these hobbits. The sound of their laughter was sending chills up his spine and making him feel sick in the stomach. He pushed his way through the crowd going to help the one they enjoyed tormenting so much. The other lads were so enveloped in their laughter that they didn't realize him kneeling down next their Poopy Pippy.  
"Yew alright?" Marroc asked in his squeaky voice.  
"Nooooo..." he moaned in reply then said, more to himself then anyone else, "Where's Merry when yew need 'im?!"  
"Merry Brandywuck?" Marroc asked.  
"No... Brandybuck..."  
"Dat's wot I meant!"  
Marroc's indignant squeak attracted the attention of the older hobbits again. They began talking loudly amongst themselves.  
"Is he still hanging around with that Brandybuck?!"  
"I heard all those who lived in Buckland were queer, and all those that associated with them were just as queer!"  
  
"Oi'm from Buckland, an' Oi'm not queer!" piped up Marroc. The black-haired hobbit looked around.  
"Oh and who are you then?"  
"Oi'm Marroc, son of Tarroc!"   
"Tarroc?! Never heard of such a person and my da knows everyone in the Shire. You're makin' up lies!"  
"Oi am NOT!" Marroc growled, "Oi'm a Took, and moi da says that Tooks don't lie!"  
A smirk came over the bigger hobbit's fat face. Marroc heard the lad behind him crawl away, but no one seemed to notice. All their attention was on him.  
"A Took, eh? Do you know what I do to Tooks?" he was asked in a menacing hiss  
Marroc shook his head bravely.  
  
A sharp blow came across his face, knocking him flat unto his back. All the other hobbits except for the one behind him started laughing.  
"That'll teach ye!" shouted the black-haired lad "not to mess with Roy Bracegirdle!" he doubled over with laughter.   
Marroc stood up. The punch didn't hurt THAT bad. He wiped blood coming down from his nose on his white sleeve, knowing the scarlet stain would be there for a long time. But that wasn't important.  
  
"Boy, he didn't see it commin', did he?" snorted the black-haired hobbit, "stupid little-" he was cut short, as Marroc's fist collided with his own face.  
"NOT SO HOT, NOW ARE YEW, SLICK?!" Marroc yelled, pulling his body into a defensive position, fists out in front, knees bent and a glare that could make an orc shudder. This was how his father had taught him to fight.  
  
Complete silence.  
  
Roy Bracegirdle put his hand to his nose. Blood was flowing as freely from it as from Marroc's. He glared down at little Marroc.  
Within moments, he was on top of Marroc, who (mind you) put up a pretty good fight for a lad his age and size, though it was nothing matched with his opposer's brute strength. Roy punched and shook Marroc, grabbing his shoulders and twisted his neck around to push his face into the dirt. With every hit, Marroc let out a heart wrenching 'YIP'.  
  
"BRACEGIRDLE!" a shout rang out. Everyone looked up, including Roy; however, Marroc didn't- as soon as Roy let go of his shoulders, he just closed his eyes and lay there, twitching.  
"ROY BRACEGIRDLE! YOU GET OFFA HIM RIGHT THIS INSTANT!" Merry Brandybuck came storming over. Pippin scurried over to Marroc, who sat up as Roy Bracegirdle stood up, releasing the weight from his abdomen.   
"I'll have your head for beating my kin!" he snarled. Neither Pippin nor Marroc had seen their older cousin so angry, nor did they know that THEY were cousins; however, the ' I-am-a-Took-and-my-da-says-Tooks-don't-lie' thing HAD been a pretty big clue, the Fools of Tooks.  
All the other lads scattered like cockroaches under a hot lamp, so that it was only Pippin, Merry, Marroc and Roy left and Merry was glaring Roy down. They all knew what would happen. Merry removed his gaze from the bully for a moment to look at his cousins.  
"Pip, why don't you take Marroc to your house, hmm?" Pippin blinked.  
"But Merry..."  
"No Pip. Go. Now."  
Pippin obeyed and helped Marroc to his feet, and then led him away, not looking back.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
A/N: Okay, that took a very long time to get up (Sorry Niph!)   
  
Had a bit of a wee problem with Pippin. Oh course, you know that the one who Roy was beating up WAS he when you hear about the green scarf, but it would sound stupid for the author to put his name up, so I used 'the little lad' which sounded really dumb, didn't it? Yeah, well, I'm a stupid person  
  
Oh yes, and if you DIDN'T like it...  
Kick me  
Pinch me  
Steal my lunch money  
Send spam to my email account  
Pillage my hometown   
I DON'T CARE! (but uh... don't send me spam please!)  
~Hippy Hobbit 


	2. Of Cousins, Goats and Much Speculation

~*~*~*~  
Marroc's Tale   
Chapter 2: Of Cousins, Goats, and Much Speculation  
By Hippy :) Hobbit  
Dedicated to Niph  
A/N: anything in between ~~ are thoughts. See author's notes at the end also.  
~*~*~*~  
It didn't take long for Marroc and Pippin to get to Tookland, but they didn't talk at all along the way (for awhile at least). There seemed to be a distinct silence between the two, as though just daring the other to say something.  
Marroc followed Pippin loyally, not even knowing that his home way his own desired destination. Merry had told him to go with him, and whatever Merry said went. Marroc was still greatly in his debt for saving his hide from a wolf earlier that summer, and followed his every order to the dot.  
"Where are we goin?" he asked Pippin after a long time.  
"Moi house."  
"Where's dat?"  
"Tooklan'"  
"Where's dat?"   
"Um..." Pippin stopped looking utterly confused, "...in Tooklan'"  
"Oh..." said Marroc, sounding as though he understood, yet didn't. "Wot's yewr name?"  
"Peregrin Took, but everyone calls me Pippin."  
"Oi'm Marroc Took."  
"Yew look like a Brandybuck."  
"Moi mum is a one."  
"Oh. Why are yew 'ere den?"  
"Oi'm buyin' a goat!" there was now an excited tone to his voice.  
"Why would yew wont a goat?" Now it was Marroc's turn to be confused.  
"Why wouldn't I?"   
"Day smell norra good."  
"Nuh-uh. Moi old Ruby smelled jus' fine!"  
"Well, yew norra smell good, so she musta smelled jus' fine ta yew!"  
"D'yew 'ave goats?"  
"Yep. Moi da's sellin' one ta someone taday though." They both had yet to make the connection and so walked in silence for a few more moments before-  
"Hey! Is yewr da's name Paladin?"  
"Uh... yeah..."  
"Oi'm the one buyin' yewr goat den!"  
"Oh."  
"Dat makes us cousins, 'cause moi da said dat Oi'm buyin' it from moi uncle."  
"Where is yewr da then?"  
"'ee fell out of a tree an' couldn't come ta take me, so Oi had ta go meself.  
"Wot was 'ee doin' up there?" Pippin blinked, confused. It didn't seem as though Marroc knew either.  
"Oi-" but just then, Merry came running up behind them, his face a bit flushed. He scooped up Pippin in his arms as soon as he had caught up to them and ruffled Marroc's hair, who then clamped a hand to his curls, annoyed.  
"Oi thought yew weren't going ta come, Mewwy."  
"My da bullied me into it, Marroc-Lad. And besides, I figured I would get to see Pip if I came." He rustled the other lad's hair.  
~And that makes everything better then doesn't it?~ Marroc asked himself, more then a bit jealous of the attention that Merry was giving his other cousin. Merry rarely got to see Pippin, unlike it was for Marroc, whom he often found himself purposely avoiding. It wasn't like he didn't like his younger cousin...  
...okay, so it was.  
  
There had always been a fine line between Marroc and Pippin, according to Merry's understanding, although they did have a lot of similarities. For one, it was quite impossible to tell the two apart during their younger years; however, if you knew what you were looking for, you could tell that Marroc had slightly a lighter hair color, due to his direct Brandybuck relations. Also, he was a bit thinner then Peregrin, and taller, even though he was about a year younger and his face was almost always dirty, as he never saw it sensible to wash it- it would be dirty again with in the hour. Their eyes, however, were both a brilliant green hue and their smile and face structure- undoubtedly Tookish. And lack of regular intelligence was always expected when near one of them (as some put it 'I can feel my very I.Q. dropping while standing in their presence!')  
Forgetting their looks and stupidity, however, the two Took lads could sometimes be very different hobbits. Pippin was always pretty rough and fun to be around- Marroc could be rough too and fun, but sometimes he was kind of...well...there was only one word that the future Master of Brandyhall could say to describe it...and that was...  
...feminine.   
Not like feminine as in 'Ohmigosh I got my dress dirty!!'(Quite the contrary as a matter-of-fact). More like 'I'm so adorable- and you can't resist me', which annoyed Merry very much.  
But really- the lad didn't know exactly what he was doing. There were periods during the day when he would get extremely tired from running around (his youthful energy can't last forever) and he would sit there, lay back, and flutter his eyelashes with a softly bemused look on his face, trying to keep awake, though it looked... well... rather odd (though strangely cute); however, most of the Brandyhall elders were making bets on whether Marroc would be a queer when he grew up. Neither Maggie nor Tarroc knew anything about this absurd idea- Saradoc didn't have the heart to tell them. Nor, if seemed, did he have the courage to risk getting his face punched in by the lad's over-protective father.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
"Why were those lads picking on you, Pippin dear?" Merry asked after a while.  
"Day said me da wasn't really me da and 'ee bought me off a tramp so 'ee could be Theein." Merry was aghast  
"How could they say something like that?! You weren't bought off some tramp!!"  
"Oi wasn't?"  
"NO! I was there when you were born!!!"  
"Were yew there when Oi was born."  
"Yes Marroc, now hush up!" Marroc scowled, but Merry continued on. "You see, Pippin, Roy and his friends just pick on little lads like you to make themselves feel good. They hate themselves, and so making others feel bad makes them feel good." He sighed, knowing he probably wasn't making any sense to his younger cousin. "You should stand up to them!"  
"Like wot Marroc did?" Pippin asked, giving his other cousin a smile as if to say 'My Hero!'. Merry glanced back at Marroc.  
"Erm... no. Not like what he did. Not physical. Stand up to him and defend yourself. Or at least run away."  
"Yew ain't supposed ta run away from a fight!" Marroc said, indignantly "Moi da says yewr supposed ta fight 'em back!"   
"No Marroc. You shouldn't get into fights. It's bad. You'll get hurt. It's just like with that wolf, lad."   
Marroc's cheeks flushed a little remembering the incident, and he said nothing more.  
~*~*~*~  
Not long after that, they came upon the looming blue door of the Took household, and the many hills of the Smials behind with their various windows and smaller doors. Merry, being the oldest and strongest opened the large door for his younger cousins, who scooted inside quickly.  
Marroc's mouth dropped open. Not even Brandyhall had so many hobbits. Servants were busy bustling by with trays and flowers and doing whatever else they could find as to make themselves busy and not get yelled at by the Thain.  
He might have been trampled by a rather large and round hobbit carrying a centerpiece, if Merry's hand hadn't grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him out of the way.  
"Marroc!" Merry hissed, giving the lad a penetrating stare before releasing him, "You need to be more careful in here! They're getting ready for a feast tonight and they're very cranky!" Marroc nodded obdiently, and then followed him and Pippin.  
A few of the elder hobbits stared as Marroc passed, but when he looked up at them, they simply smiled and nodded in an almost forced-friendly fashion, before turning to each other and whispering fervently.  
Now, there's an important point I'd like to bring up here- Tarroc never told his son why he'd been sent away from the Took clan. He never told him that he had almost killed his cousin Paladin- not out of shame, but for fear that his Marroc-Lad, who was already turning out to be so much like himself, would act with the same denotations towards his own cousins. It was simply that Daddy WANTED to work as a bounder, not that Daddy had been FORCED to work as a bounder.  
And so, they continued on down the long corridors filled with both closed and opened doors, and weaving their way around everyone, until at last, they came to the Great Hall- which would be where the celebrations that night would be taking place at. Marroc's mouth dropped open again at the size of the room. Never before had he seen so many hobbits in one place, especially a place as big as this!  
"Marroc!" Merry yelled, annoyed, snapping the lad back into his rightful mind. Marroc ran after him, though not before tripping over his own feet and falling flat on his face at the feet of Paladin Took- the soon to be Thain and Arch-enemy of his own father.  
Merry covered his face with one hand ~Stupid git!~. Paladin picked Marroc up by the back of his green jacket and set him on his feet in front of himself. Marroc blinked a few times, then rubbed his nose on his sleeve, and looked Paladin straight in the eye. Pippin watched silently as Merry strode forward a bit a set his hand on the younger lad's shoulder.  
"Err... Mr. Took. This is Marroc, Tarroc's son. He's the one my father... my father said would be coming to buy that goat you had for sale." He gulped, waiting for some kind out outburst to come from Paladin about having Tarroc's son IN the Took household, but nothing came immediately. Pippin's father just stood, surveying the skinny lad in front of him, and scratching his chin with a pensive look on his face. Marroc stood looking equally as thoughtful. Paladin... now that he thought about it, that name rang a bell. Oh yeah! Paladin was that guy that his da was always hollering about. ~He doesn't look THAT mean~ Marroc mused to himself. But Paladin's words brought him back from his thoughts.  
  
"Since when did Tarroc get married?" he asked Merry, in a rather rude, though skeptical tone, "We all thought he was dead!"  
  
"Err..." when DID Tarroc and Maggie get married anyway? Merry knew it was before he was born- they had waited a long time to have children. He was almost ready to answer that he didn't know, but then Paladin spoke again.  
  
"Forget it. I'm not going to sell him the goat." Marroc's mouth dropped open and he looked to Merry to defend him. Merry caught the lad's sad eyes and felt a pang of sympathy in his heart for his little cousin.  
  
"Wha..why not, sir?" Paladin frowned at Merry.  
  
"Don't question me, Meriadoc Brandybuck! I have my reasons. Don't you know what his father almost did to me?!" Merry nodded.  
  
"Well, yes, but that doesn't mean you should have a grudge against Marroc! He worked hard to earn the money to buy that goat!" ~and you don't have to walk all the way home with him being all pouty!~   
  
"I don't care how much he worked!" Paladin was getting angry. The Brandybucks were supposed to be on HIS side, goshdarnitall!  
  
  
Marroc's usually bright and perky green eyes were starting to tear up now. Merry watched, feeling rather awkward. He had, of course, seen the lad cry. Marroc could be a very emotional person at times. Though he never threw a fit- his parents had raised him well (with the exception of beating up all who opposed him). But seriously, he didn't cry when he got hurt, he didn't cry when he didn't get his way, he didn't cry when someone played a joke on him, and he usually didn't cry when he got scared (the wolf thing was a whole different story and understandably so). He cried when he saw those he loved in bad moods, which happened most of the time when he was around Merry. But now... after he had worked so hard for that danged goat-  
  
"Meriadoc! Take this lad home and tell his father that I don't ever want him around here AGAIN! And I don't want him talking to Peregrin or the girls! Do you understand, Meriadoc?!" Paladin yelled to his nephew. Merry sighed  
  
"Yes sir." He took Marroc's hand and began leading him away. Pippin looked sadly up at his father.   
  
"Paddy, can I go with Merry?" he asked eagerly.  
  
"NO Peregrin! Have you heard nothing we have been talking about?!" Pippin gave his father the sad-puppy-dog look.  
  
"But Paddy-"  
  
"NO!" Pippin gave Marroc and Merry a sad wave, as they left the Great Hall.  
~*~*~*~  
Marroc hadn't said a word since they had left, and it was starting to bug Merry. He patted him comfortingly on the back.  
  
"Come now, Marroc. We'll find you another goat." Marroc said nothing in reply, though his thoughts were going wild. ~It's the whole point of rejection, Meriadoc. You don't understand it, because no one had ever rejected you, and your parents aren't the only ones who love you~  
  
Merry was just about to say something more, when it began to rain. Not just some light summer shower, but a full-fledged storm broke out in a matter of minutes.   
Merry sighed in an exasperated tone ~The world hates me, doesn't it?~ He stopped walking, and Marroc stopped too, looking back at him.  
  
"We're going to need to get back to Tookland. It's closest." Marroc gave him a sardonic look, which just made Merry even angrier.  
  
"Look, Marroc. I don't care if Uncle Paladin doesn't want YOU there. You'll catch cold in this weather, and he can't cast out his own kin into the storm no matter how much he hates them-err their fathers!" ~Can he?~ He picked Marroc up and began running back towards Tookland.  
~*~*~*~  
By the time they got there, they were both soaked to the bone. Merry lifted a shaking hand and gave a knock upon the rain-soaked azure surface of the door and waited. Finally, it opened.  
  
"Meriadoc!" Eglantine opened the door, then pulled him and the lad he carried in in a rush. "My goodness, Merry! Why are you out in the rain, and with such a little child? You could get him sick, not to mention yourself also!" she took Marroc from Merry's arms.  
  
"Err... this is Marroc... Tarroc and Maggie Took's son, Mrs. Took," said Merry quietly. He waited for the same sort of reaction that came from his uncle, but that didn't happen.  
  
"Maggie's son? Well, I didn't even know she got married! To Tarroc? Tarroc Took? No wonder I haven't she hasn't come on holiday in such a long time! That man's probably been keeping her away! Well no matter. Come with me, lad. You'll catch cold if you stay in those clothes. I'll get Edvard to loan you something to wear, and Peregrin can give this one something!" She hurried off with Marroc and Merry followed quickly.   
~*~*~*~  
They both had been taken care of within the hour, being given warm pajamas to wear. It was soon obvious that they were now going to have to stay the night. Even if the rain let up, the roads would be too muddy to travel all the way back to Buckland and it was starting to get dark. Eglantine had told the servants to get them blankets and a mug of hot soup each, then told the lads to curl up in front of the fire in the parlor. Merry had asked her to fetch Pippin, who was only too happy to join their little slumber party. He and Marroc shared a blanket, and they soon fell asleep, Marroc with his head resting on Pippin's chest and Pippin hugging his new friend tightly.  
Eglantine watched her son and his cousin with a delighted smile on her lips ~Children get along so well...~ the two looked so content, their chests rising and falling lightly in unison. She closed the door of the parlor, so that none of the guests that evening would go in and disturb their rest. And especially not Paladin.  
  
~*~*~*~  
Tarroc was not happy camper when his son didn't return by nightfall.  
"That blasted Paladin!" His yells echoed throughout their hobbithole as his wife tried to calm him down, " 'ee's prob'ly done somethin' ta Marroc-Lad! 'urt 'im or drugged him or somethin'! Oh Maggie! Why did Oi let 'im go there alone?!"  
"Shhh, Tarroc love! I'm sure Marroc's fine. He probably went to Brandyhall when it started raining. I'm sure he's there now, you know he's a bright lad, dear!" said Maggie, soothingly.  
"All the same! Oi'm not goin' ta jus' lie 'ere and not know if 'ee's alright or not!" he tried to stand, but fell back over due to his broken leg. "ARGHHHH!!!" Maggie sighed.  
"Tarroc, dearest, if you want me to, I'll take the ponies to Brandyhall to see if Marroc's there. I don't want you to hurt yourself!"  
"No Maggie! Oi'm commin' with yew!" Maggie sighed again, rendering it useless to argue with him.  
  
Tarroc managed to limp his way into the stable without any incident, upon a make-shift crutch he had Maggie make for him out of a few bundled walking sticks and some rags. There, he helped his wife hook up their old pony, Loch Lomond, to their cart, and in the pouring rain, they drove all the way to Brandyhall.  
  
"Sorry Tarroc," Saradoc said, as they sat by the fire in the parlor of the Master's home, "He hasn't come back. And neither has Merry. I made him feel guilty for not going with your lad, and I suppose he probably caught up to him. He left not long after Marroc went past here. Though they might have stayed in Tookland when it started raining, I'm sure."  
  
Tarroc banged his fist down on the coffee table that was next to the rocking chair he was sitting in, denting the wood ever the slightest and making Maggie jump up a little.   
  
"Tarroc!" she scolded. Saradoc sighed, knowing it would be no use to try and sooth his friend's anger management problem.   
  
"I wouldn't risk going to Tookland, Tarroc, not in this weather, and especially not with that leg of yours. It'll be too muddy for the cart also."  
  
"I DON'T CARE! I'm going to find my son before something terrible happens to him! Maggie, you stay here-"  
  
"No Tarroc. I'm coming too."  
  
"Maggie!"  
  
"Tarroc, I'm going with you, or you're not going at all! Besides, you'll probably kill Paladin- Someone's going to need to hold you back!"  
  
" I don't want to kill him..." Tarroc scowled, "maybe maim him a bit though,"  
  
"Well, you almost killed him last time," said Saradoc, folding his arms across his chest, " I remember it well. I don't think I'd let you go unless Maggie went too, anyway," he smiled at his cousin and fellow Brandybuck, "She's a strong lass, and I reckon the only person in the Shire that would be able to calm YOU down. Besides Marroc of course," he stood up and they did to, Tarroc leaning heavily on his crutch, " Well, have Merry come home with you if you make it there in one piece."  
~*~*~*~  
It was far past the end of the feast. Pimpernel, Pippin's older sister, was asleep in a chair by the door, where she had been greeting guests all night (most of whom had gone home, not living far away enough for the rain to be a problem). A sharp knock came to the door, jerking Pimpernel out of her peaceful rest. After the second knock came, she decided that she should get it, since no one else was around. She pulled herself out of the chair with a groan, and opened the door.  
Tarroc and Maggie stood there, of course, but she had no idea who they were.  
"Err... can I help you?" she asked them politely, though they looked rather like gypsies due to the extensive travel they had under taken during the storm and it was making her nervous.  
Tarroc leaned on his crutch, then said to her, nicely, "Sorry to bother yew this late in the evenin', Miss, but could yew tell me if one such Paladin Took still resides in this fair home?" Maggie covered her face, trying to keep from laughing at the politeness in her husband's voice ~He wasn't even this nice to me at our wedding! Alright, maybe he was...~. Pimpernel nodded, slowly.  
"Yes. He's my father. Erm... shall I fetch him for you, sir?"  
"'hat would be dandy, Miss."  
"Uh... would you come in then?" She led them into the second parlor, which wasn't as nice as the one Marroc, Pippin and Merry were sleeping in, as her mother had warned her not to let anyone into the that one. They sat down and she rushed off to find her father.  
  
She found him, speaking with the old Thain, near the back of the Great Hall.  
"Father," she said, after making sure they were both done speaking, "someone is here to see you."  
  
"Really? Who is it?" he asked, mildly curious. Pimpernel shrugged.  
"I dunno. I didn't ask for names. It's a man and a woman- they're all haggard from being out in the rain and mud, and the man has a crutch. He asked for you personally."   
  
Paladin frowned. "Well, alright." He bade goodnight to the Thain and left the room with his daughter.  
As soon as he walked in the room and saw who was sitting in the chair, a look of intense fear came over Paladin's face. He stared wide-eyed at his cousin.  
  
"Y-you! What are you doing here?!"  
  
Tarroc stood up and leaned heavily on his crutch.  
"Where's my son?!" he asked. He didn't say it loudly, but it was in a curt and threatening tone. Paladin paused for a moment, thinking, and then replied snidely,   
  
"Your scanty little rat of a son left here at noon, with Meriadoc! I don't know where they went after that, but he most certainly isn't here!" He folded his arms across his chest angrily, "Now go before I tell the Thain you're here!"  
This enraged Tarroc even more. Before Maggie could grab him to hold him down, he had leapt from the crutch, to Paladin, knocking him flat on his back.  
  
"WHERE IS MY SON?!"  
  
~*~*~*~  
In the room next door, Pippin and Marroc awoke as they heard the yelling. They both sat up, Pippin looking altogether mortified, though Marroc just looked confused and half-awake.  
  
"W-w-wot was d-d-d-dat?" Pippin stammered, grabbing Marroc's hand, frightened beyond his wits. The walls between them distorted the yelling quite a lot, so the noises they heard were just a bunch of random, though frightening roars. Marroc shrugged, then yawned and stood up, stepping over the lump that was Merry and walking to the door. Pippin scurried after him.  
  
"Wait! Dun yew think we should wake up Mewwy?" He asked, shaking furiously. Marroc watched him for a moment, looking a bit worried, then shook his head, his curls flopping around.  
  
"Naw..." He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it, then pulled the door open.  
  
Two curly, Tookish heads poked out into the hallway, Marroc was on the bottom and Pippin was on top, leaning a bit too far over perhaps. They both fell making quite the clatter a few moments later, though it was nothing compared to the room next to them.  
  
"TELL ME WHERE HE IS, YOU KNIVING FIEND, OR I'LL KILL YOU HERE AND NOW! WHERE'S MY SON!"  
  
"Tarroc, sweetie! C'mon now, let him go!" Loud thumps could be heard now- Tarroc was beating Paladin's head upon the hard wood floor. He was ignoring his wife though.  
  
Marroc pulled himself out from under his cousin.  
  
"Oi think dat's me da..." he said, slowly to Pippin, before standing and walking over to the door of the second parlor. He twisted the knob and slowly pulled it open.  
  
The scene that came to his eyes was odd for such young children to see. Marroc's crippled father, was sitting on the stomach of his uncle, shaking and beating his head on the floor by means of grabbing his shoulders. He was using his knees to keep Paladin from grabbing him, pushing his arms into the ground. His mother was on her feet too, trying with all her might to pull her husband off his very frightened, now very confused and befuddled cousin.  
  
Everyone looked up and stopped what they were doing as Marroc entered, Pippin following closely behind him. Marroc looked his father in the eye, his mouth slightly open. Tarroc watched his son, feeling his heart break. He watched the cogs turning under his son's thick hair, feeling irresponsible and altogether stupid ~Ack! How could I set such a bad example?!~. It was a few moments before anyone said anything, but Marroc was the first to speak.  
  
"Da..." he said, slowly, backing up until he was standing next to Pippin. The cogs seemed to be working hard. "We-we are fwiends..." he took Pippin's hand, "why cant yew two be?"  
~*~*~*~  
(A/N: Okay that kinda took me a while to get up, didn't it? But it was, most definitely longer then chapter 1. Erm... I got three reviews, so I guess I'll answer them now:  
Niph: Aww... thanks! That whole big, long conversation between Marroc and Pippin I wrote just for you, because of that review (no really, it was going to be a lot shorter then what it finally turned out as) ! *feels all special now*  
  
Gollumsess: Jeez, now I feel even more special! Thank you!  
Cerridwen: Erm... the accent...riiight. Here's a little key to use, if you need it. I (shamelessly) ripped a lot of it off the mole's speech in the Redwall series:  
  
Oi- I  
Norra- not or no  
Yew- you  
Yewr- your or you're   
Wot- what  
Dat- that  
Day- they  
Moi- my  
Theein- Thain  
  
Marroc won't talk like that after a while. Tarroc will only be in a few more chapters also, so you wont have to put up with the accent for a little while.  
  
I think the rest should be pretty easy to figure out. Oh yeah... the sparkplug thing hit me like a baseball in the forehead from home to right field (ouchies)... I realized that right after publishing the last chapter and felt really pretty stupid x.X But thanks for the review and I look forward to some more of your insights if you read this chapter too!  
Now for just a few little sidenotes: The very last line of this chapter comes from the movie 'Big Bully' (cant remember who stars in it) but the son says it to the father when he sees his best friend's paddy wrestling with him. Yeppers. Some parts in this chapter may make absolutely no sense, but that's because I wrote the majority of it while half awake. Uh... what else? Oh yes... I don't like the fact that Tookland and Buckland are like, 100 miles away from each other (according to the Middle Earth Atlas) so, they wont be in MY story.  
Err... Tarroc has anger management problems, though I'm sure you figured that out already. Marroc has emotional problems- he becomes rather jealous of Merry and Pippin's relationship, not having any real hobbit friends himself.  
Oh, and I added the Edvard thing for you too, Niph. Thought you may get a kick out of that ~.^  
  
~Hippy :) Hobbit 


	3. Memories

~*~*~*~  
Marroc's Tale  
Chapter 3: Memories  
By Hippy :) Hobbit  
Dedicated to Niph  
~*~*~*~  
Eglantine walked into the room, moments later, thinking that, by the noises she was hearing, some tweenagers had gotten into a silly little fight. Her mouth was agape, however, as she walked in. What greeted her eyes was pretty much both confusing and shocking. Her son and nephew, who no one was supposed to know was even there, were standing in front of her, and everyone was looking at them, and their clasped hands. By everyone, I mean Maggie, Paladin and Tarroc, of course. Eglantine blinked at them, wondering exactly why Tarroc was sitting on top of her husband, and why Maggie and Tarroc were even there to begin with. Before she could say anything, however, Tarroc stood up. His eyes were sincere, something that out of all of those gathered, only Maggie had ever seen. She picked up his crutch for him and handed to him immediately so he wouldn't fall over. Tarroc then offered a hand to Paladin, who took it, after a moment of reluctant consideration. Tarroc pulled him to his feet, and then gave Maggie a bit of a hard, though meaningful, look. Eglantine caught the look too, and put one of her hands on the Pippin's shoulders.   
  
"Well, boys. I think it's time you got back to sleep!" she said, quickly.  
  
"Yes, yes!" Maggie said, backing her up and striding forward and putting her hands on her son's shoulders. Pippin looked to his mother.  
  
"Mummy, Oi'm a bit peckish," he said. Eglantine regarded her son for a moment, before speaking.  
  
"Well, Maggie, why don't you come with me and we'll make the boys some sandwiches?"  
  
"Yes, that'd be lovely." Maggie said, directing her son rather roughly out the door to follow Eglantine and Pippin.  
When she was a child, Eglantine's mother and father would often take her to Brandyhall, as they were great friends with Old Roary. That is where she first met Maggie, and they had become rather good friends themselves, over time; however, Tarroc had forbidden his wife to visit her as soon as he heard that she had married Paladin. And since they had not seen each other in nearly 20 years, the two had a lot of catching up to do.  
  
By the time Eglantine had led her friend and the two boys to the kitchen, the two of them were already laughing like little girls, pulling up old memories of the lads they used to stay up and gossip about all-night when she would come on holiday and such. Marroc and Pippin were very quiet throughout the whole time- Marroc was still a bit in shock from seeing his father in such a rage, and Pippin was just hungry.  
  
They brought the sandwiches to the now-empty great hall to eat them. Maggie picked up Marroc and set him on her lap, while Eglantine did the same with her son, for the children would be unable to sit at the table comfortably on their own.   
  
Marroc picked up one of the sandwiches on the platter and began to nibble, slowly around the edges. He much resembled a rabbit in Pippin's mind. He wasn't looking at the food he was eating, nor on any one of their faces, but he was just kind of... off in some other world. But Pippin didn't spend a lot of his time looking at his cousin- MMmm food!  
Marroc began twitching after a little while, probably due to a buildup of unused energy, but his mother calmed him by rubbing his back. He hadn't even finished his first sandwich by the time he fell asleep with his head on her shoulder, though she continued rubbing his back and chatting with her friend at the same time. Pippin, however, had already started on his 3rd sandwich by the time Marroc fell asleep, and was hardly even paying attention to the conversation of the grown-ups.  
  
"So... I can't believe you married Tarroc Took, the terror of Tookland!" Eglantine laughed. Maggie blushed a little.  
"He's not really such a terror as everyone says."  
"Oh really?" replied her friend in a teasing tone, "do tell!"   
Maggie blushed even more, now stroking her sleeping son's hair.  
"Well, he's really sweet and caring once you get to know him... he's a great husband and father too," she smiled down at her son again, "He really loves Marroc... only... it's like he afraid to show it, or something. But sometimes, you can see the pride in his eyes when he looks at him. I know he loves him... he threw a downright fit when Marroc didn't come home tonight...and it is very difficult to calm him when he's like that. Especially when he's been bed ridden all day-"  
"-But he shows nothing but animosity towards Paladin... do you recall..."   
"...yes! They were inseparable as children!" Maggie laughed, "The two of them and Saradoc... they were always the best of friends. I can't even remember what happened..."  
  
  
There was a long pause, before Eglantine spoke again.   
  
  
"Well, whatever it was, I don't think any of them want to share it with us, and we'll keep it at that. And anyway, if we did know, we may wish we didn't..."  
  
Pippin was starting to feel sleep washing over him. He laid his head on his own mother's shoulder, now and nodded off, with the crust of his 5th sandwich in his hand.  
~*~*~*~  
"This really is madness, Tarroc. You know, you're son was right. We need to stop this."  
  
"Yes, Paladin... Oi... Oi 'ave ta agree. We aren't setting good examples for the younguns."  
  
"Children." Paladin said in a stern tone. Tarroc shook his head.  
  
"Yew know what Oi meant!" the parlor went quiet.  
  
"How did this even start, anyway? I surely can't remember..." Paladin murmured. Tarroc raised an eyebrow.   
  
"Yew seriously can't remember?" he asked, " Seriously?! Oi can't forget!"  
  
"Then...remind me, if you would..."  
  
"Alright." Tarroc stood up, "Well... it all started when..."  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
"Oi can't believe this! Now moi father is going to think Oi'm some kind of pervert or somethang!"  
  
"I have news for you, Tarroc Took," 27-year-old Saradoc Brandybuck said, "You ARE some kind of pervert!"  
  
"So are yew!" Tarroc groaned, sitting down and covering his face with his hands, "If yew hadn't been so darn desperate to catch a glimpse of Esmeralda in the nude... NONE of this would have ever even happened!"  
  
Paladin, who had been sitting on the floor of the Thain's study with his head in his hands, looked up, a flame in his eyes, glaring at Saradoc.  
  
"You were looking at... my sister?!" he stood up, slowly walking towards Saradoc  
  
"Erm... no..." alleged the said Brandybuck, backing away.  
  
Tarroc snorted, irritably. "That's not what yew told me!" he growled. The other Took was now right in his charge's face. Saradoc looked nervously back to Tarroc, "Yeah, but I told you NOT to tell him!", he hissed, as Paladin got closer. Tarroc shook his head, then stood up and put a hand on Paladin's shoulder.   
"Alright. Leave 'im alone. It's not his fault he's a stupid perv." Paladin turned around.  
"Tarroc, I'll do what I want," he snarled. Tarroc shook his head, "Why don't yew try to think of a way to get us out of this instead, hmm? Yew ARE the smart 'un."  
"I can't."  
"Yew can't what?"  
"I can't think of a way to get us out of this."  
"Why not?"  
"Nothing comes to mind. I guess I'm just brain-dead today," he shrugged. Tarroc scowled. "Oh great! Thanks a lot!"  
"Gee, what's your problem?"  
"Yew are! Why do yew have to be brain dead TODAY, yew idiot?! Moi father is going to kill me for watchin' moi cousins like...that!"  
"Don't call me that!"  
"What? Call yew an idiot? IDIOT! IDIOT!"  
"YES! DON'T CALL ME AN IDIOT!" he shoved Tarroc, who stumbled backwards for a moment, before catching himself and running at Paladin...  
~*~*~*~  
  
"Do yew remember now?"  
  
Paladin nodded. "Yes, but I don't see why that's bothered you for all these years. We always had little fights like that-"  
  
"That's not the point! That's just where it all started! After that yew were always rotten to me!"  
  
"-So that's why you tried to kill me?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
Paladin raised an eyebrow, "You really need to get a life... so that's all you do all day is hate me?"  
  
"Not all Oi do, but most of it is."  
  
Paladin sighed ~What an idiot Tarroc is!~ "Well, can we at least draw a truce now? For our children's sake?"   
  
Tarroc frowned, turning over the idea in his mind. He thought about the look his son had given him, before finally replying, "Oi suppose..."  
  
"Good," said Paladin offering him his hand. Tarroc took it and they shook hands quickly, before letting go, "and I suppose you should probably stay the night tonight also... I'll go get the servants to make you and... and Maggie a room." He left the parlor.   
~*~*~*~  
A/N: All right, that was a fairly short chapter, but chapter 4 will be much longer. Erm... nothing else really to say, 'cept answer reviews...:  
Takeme2thehavens (A.K.A. Estie):   
YAY FOR THE MOLES! Actually, I'm more of an otter or hare (GO BASIL!) person, but I think the moles have cute voices ^^ Erm... Merry's gonna be a bit evil in this story... as I mentioned on the guild boards, he and Marroc don't really see eye-to-eye. Tank 'oo very muff... ugh... allergy season...  
  
Niph: Thanks, as always. I got the inspiration for the cute Marroc & Pippin moments from Robin Gurl's wee Pip stories... they are very cute and I am going to give them a plug. GO READ ROBIN GURL'S STUFF! WEE!  
  
If I cant get chapter four up this week (which I know I wont be able to- tis gonna be a long one) It wont be next week either because I'll be on vacation for spring break and my mum wont let me bring the laptop *scowls* so I'll be forced to hand write it, which kills me because I am very lazy x.X...  
Well, that's about it for now... see y'all later.  
  
~Hippy 


	4. Lastriel

~*~*~*~  
  
Marroc's Tale  
Chapter 4: Lastriel  
By Hippy :) Hobbit  
Dedicated to Niph (and Estie ^^)  
  
~*~*~*~  
Exactly three weeks had passed since the faithful night of Paladin and Tarroc's truce and it was the day of Marroc's sixth birthday.  
He woke up rather early that morning, feeling a bit confused. Wait a second... was it his birthday? His mother had ALWAYS awoken him on all of his birthdays, but today, he got up all by his lonesome. He sat up, scratching his head ~Where's mummy?~ he thought to himself, before his conscience came up with an answer ~Maybe... maybe she doesn't think I wouldn't like being woken up by her on my birthday, 'cause I'm such a big boy now an' I can get up on my own...~. Yes, that was it. It had to be.  
He yawned and climbed out of his bed, though first stumbling on the bottoms of the sleeping trousers he'd just finished sewing for himself a few days beforehand (his mother had to help him a bit, of course, as his stitches weren't quite straight yet, but they had still turned out about 3 inches too long). He stumbled into the kitchen, tripping three times along the way, and once more as he stepped in.  
His father was sitting at the table, trying to figure out how to make tea. It looked rather difficult- he was holding a teacup over a candle. The teacup was stuffed with...some kind of nasty smelling herb and filled to the brim with water, which kept spilling and putting the candle out. Then, scowling, he would re-light it (nearly 20 splintered matches lay around the plate that the candle was on) and the cycle would start all over again. Marroc blinked up at his father, grabbing a hunk of bread from the plate that was on the counter and beginning to nibble on it.  
  
"Where's mum?" he asked, suddenly, pulling the bread away from his mouth.   
  
Tarroc, who hadn't noticed his son entering the room, looked up, spilling the whole lot of the cup over the candle, "DARN IT, MARROC!" he cursed as the grassy water spread out over the table. He smoothed his hair thick, un-ruly russet hair back and wiped sweat from his forehead, trying to calm himself down, "She's...erm... in bed right now, Marroc-Lad. Quick! Hand me that towel!"  
Marroc ran to the sink and grabbed the towel off its rack. He handed it to his father and watched him mop up the mess.  
"Why?"  
Tarroc looked up, "She's not feeling well today," he said simply; "I had Lodo take Loch to Bywater for a healer. They should be back by this evening." He poured some more water into the cup from the pitcher, re-lit the candle, and tried again, sweat pouring from his forehead again.   
"Oh..." Marroc said quietly, now remembering that his father couldn't cook to save his life, or Marroc's either, for that matter. ~Great... We're gonna starve...~, "...why isn't she feeling good?" he asked, wide eyed. Tarroc looked up, exasperated  
"OI DON'T KNOW!" he yelled, giving his son a warning glare, before going back to the cup. He was in a terrible mood.  
Marroc pouted. His father was hardly ever THAT stern to him, but the stupid Tookish curiosity kicked in again, "Why not?"  
The cup spilled again, creating an even bigger mess then the one before. Tarroc gave an aggravated roar, before yelling, "JUS' GO OUTSIDE BEFORE YEW CAUSE ANYMORE TROUBLE!"   
  
~*~*~*~  
"Gee Butch..." Marroc muttered to his new billy, leaning on the fence of his stall, "Oi'm havin' a wotten bifhday..." he climbed up on the top bar of the fence and reached in and scratched the top of Butch's head. Pale blue goat eyes smiled up at him and Marroc gave a weak smile in return, and then flung himself into the pen. He took the rope that hung near the pen's gate and hooked it onto the clip on the collar around Butch's neck, then opened the gate and led the goat out.  
  
They strolled out of the stable, around the pond that lay on the edge of the Took's property, and to the fence that separated their land from the Old Forest. Marroc climbed over the fence and let Butch hop over the middle bar.  
  
"Oi think it's silly what day named yew," the little hobbit said to his companion, "Butch is a silly name. Besides, you look like a Lila then a Butch." The goat blinked up at him, before letting out a little bleat.   
"Yew don't have to agree," Marroc replied, annoyed, but Butch bent his neck down to Marroc's sleeve and began chewing at his knuckles reassuringly, making the little hobbit giggle.  
They walked staunchly into the mass of trees that was the Old Forest. Lichen covered the forest floor. It was squishy under their feet, and the forest itself smelled old and musky, though oddly calming to Marroc's nostrils. The smell reminded him of the elves... with their long, gleaming hair twined with flowers, green and white gems glinting on their collars and their belts, and their faces and songs so filled with mirth ...he sighed to himself. Perhaps he would see Gildor today.  
  
A large knobby Yew stood out in a clearing about 100 yards into off the path, near a tiny babbling waterfall. Marroc smiled to himself as he approached it. It was his fairy tree. The place that always made him happy when he was sad or depressed. He trotted happily over, delighted to be by himself, with only the company of the fairly silent Butch, of course. He sat down in the shade of the old tree, feeling its long roots spreading out under his legs, and bugs crawling up his back, making him titter some more. Butch lay down next to him and set his head on Marroc's lap, allowing him to stroke his fuzzy head.  
  
"Oi think yewr moi only fwiend, Butch," Marroc murmured sadly to the goat, "No one else seems to like me too much. 'Cept moi mummy." He sighed "I know Mewwy doesn't. Stupid... spoiled... brat..." he picked up a rock and hucked it at the pool under the tiny waterfall, watching the huge splash, and then the rings as they slowly grew larger and larger, before finally spreading into oblivion as they reached the cut-off bank. Marroc sighed again, beginning to feel a wee bit drowsy. He continued sitting in his hatred for his elder cousin for a few moments longer, before his eyelids began to droop in that annoyingly cute way, and his mouth dropped open, as he drifted off to sleep...  
  
He awoke with a jolt some time later. Well, it was more like a pang then a jolt. Something... some airborne thing, had collided with his head. And it was wet. He opened his eyes and lifted a hand to his brow. Blood was on his fingers. Had it, whatever IT was, really hit him that hard, hard enough to make him bleed? He didn't feel very much pain, except for a bit of a dullness of where the thing had hit him. But then, his eyes caught something lying a few feet away. Something white. A dove. Bleeding from the breast. The bird had flown right into his forehead. Though perhaps his head wasn't what caused the bleeding. He stood up, and Butch, who had previously been sleeping as well, lifted his head and watched his owner run over to the dove.  
  
Marroc picked the bird up in his hands. It was still alive, but barely. He could feel its little heart struggling to beat under his fingers. He bore it to the pool of water and set it on the ground. He sat down next to the dying bird and pulled a small knife out of his jacket pocket. He took the knife, and cut into the bottom of the right leg of his bed trousers, about 7 inches from the bottom, making a small hole. Then, he ripped the bottom of the leg off quickly, producing a nice strip of green-white plaid fabric. He dipped the fabric into the pool of water, and brought the bit of textile to the bird's breast, slowly and carefully wiping the blood off. As the redness disappeared and soaked into the cloth, the end of a thorn became visible. It had pierced the dove right above the heart.   
  
With the greatest care, Marroc pulled the thorn out with his fingertips. The dove opened its chocolate brown eyes and struggled against the hobbit, fluttering its wings like mad, and getting Marroc's fingers covered even more with it's own blood. His stomach felt a bit squeamish at the warm liquid on his hands and a little hit his face, but he got over it quickly. He held the bird's legs down with one hand, and then took the knife up again. He went to the other leg this time, and cut once more, 7 inches from the bottom. But this time, he didn't dip it in the water. Instead, he wrapped it around the wound, tightly, to put pressure on it and stop the bleeding. The dove looked up at him, a bit bemused, as if to say 'oh...well... um... thanks, I think?'. Marroc smiled and pulled some seed that he usually saved for feeding the chickens with out of his pocket and offered it to the bird, who took it, pecking at his hand rather affectionately.   
  
"You are a fair healer for one so young and small," came a voice. It startled Marroc so bad, that he jumped backwards, tripped over one of the spreading roots of the Yew, and fell into the pool of water. It was pretty deep, having a sharp cut-off bank, but he managed to fight his way, kicking and splashing, to the top and grabbed onto the bank.  
  
The most beautiful elf maiden Marroc had ever seen glided out from behind the knobby Yew. Locks of thick, rich, bronzed hair fell loosely over her shoulders, their curls framing a pale, though pure and perfectly formed face. Optics of a deep gray, like the color of the sea's sky during a storm, were the same color as her swirling, silk robes. Turquoise gems, like rain drops, dotted the robe's neck line, sleeves, waist line, and the bottom hems, under of which a pair of steely gray trousers could be seen, before going into her boots. Half way up to her knees, they were also gray with turquoise gems sewn into the light, and easy-to-move-in fabric.   
  
But the thing that caught Marroc's eyes at once was the sword. The long, slender blade wasn't in a sheath, like the one Gildor owned. It hung from a metal chain belt (probably mithril) around the elf's waist, and was made, most oddly, of wood. Paintings of green leaves ran down the length of the sword, and a green Beryl rest on the top of the handle, a spot of light hitting it, making it shadow its jade brilliance 'pon the trunk of the old Yew.  
  
"Now..." she said, "...I think you should get out of that water. Don't you mortals get sick when you get cold?"  
Marroc simply stared.  
"Well?" She asked, sounding the least bit annoyed, "I am just asking. I don't know a lot about illnesses and such things."  
Marroc blinked, bemused, his mouth dropping slightly open. Deciding not to wait for an answer, the elf strode forward, past the dove and the goat, and to the water's edge. She bent down and put her hands under Marroc's arms, and lifted him out of the water and set him on his feet.  
"There!" She proclaimed, kneeling down next to him, "Now... why. Wont. You. talk?"  
He looked up into her bright face, as she was still quite tall to him kneeling, and said with awe in his eyes, "Are yew an angel?"   
The elf smiled a little confused smile, unsure of what to say.  
"Err...no." She settled on saying  
"Wot's yewr name?" Marroc asked her in a soft whisper.  
"Lastriel Dulinwen*," she replied, equally as quiet, though her words sounded graceful and smooth where as his were his usual sort, toddler gibberish, "what's yours then? And erm...what ARE you?"  
  
"Marroc, son of Tarroc Took," he replied, then added a bit resentfully, "and Oi'm a hobbit."  
"A hobbit..." she turned the word over on her tongue, "...I have never heard of such a thing before. But..." she paused, " I haven't come to these lands in many many years..." she sighed. She really hadn't been here. For countless years.  
After her parents had been killed in an orc ambush, Lastriel had been left all alone in the world, except for her younger brother, Lastrion** (who will play a major role in the future of our story). But now, Lastrion had found his soul mate, and left his sister's side as her constant companion to be with that rotten, twitty, totally un-elfish Randiriel Gil-Estel Percoi*** (who will also play a huge role), and Lastriel was, once again, alone. She sighed, then glanced back to the goat, who was staring at her, looking a spot confused.  
"Your friend?" she asked Marroc, who nodded.  
"An' moi only one, at dat," he said, sounding very depressed.  
"What do you mean by that?" Lastriel asked quietly.   
Marroc wrinkled his nose and gave a weak smile, "No one seems ta like me," he said, in a sad voice, "Oi dunno why, 'cause oi norra think oi nev-ah did nothing ta be meany ta dem..." (I don't know why because I don't think I did anything to be mean to them)  
Lastriel smiled, trying to refrain herself from laughing. She could've sworn herself to be growing a little fond of the hobbit, "well, how about this then," she said, taking his little hand in her own long and graceful fingers, "I'll be your friend, if you'll be mine?"  
  
Marroc blinked up at her, "Really?!"  
  
Lastriel nodded.  
  
With a tremendous spring, Marroc leapt up into the unsuspecting elf's arms. Surprised as she was, Lastriel patted his back in a nice, though rather rigid manner, before setting him on the ground.  
  
"Now, Marroc son of Tarroc..." she tried to think of a good question,"...erm...how old are you?"  
Marroc blinked, then held up five fingers for a second, before retracting them all again.  
"Five?" Lastriel asked. Marroc shook his curly head,  
"NO! Oi turneded sixish taday!"  
"Sixty?"  
"NO! Sixish!" he held up his hand again and counted out all five of his tiny fingers, before going to the next hand and holding out his index finger. Lastriel smiled.  
"Oh... six, you mean."  
"yep!"   
Lastriel gave a weak smile. 6? She could hardly remember when she was so young!  
"And where, hobbit child, are your parents?"  
Now it was Marroc's turn for a weak smile, "Moi mummy is sick, an' Oi dun know why! Moi paddy norra tell me..." the smile turned upsides down, "...'ee yelled at me... so Oi came out 'ere wit moi Butch," he scratched the goat's head again, who bleated in pleasure.  
Lastriel felt a bit saddened, "Your mummy is sick?" she asked, in a sympathetic voice, "Oh no!" she bent down and hugged him close, "well, at least it's your birthday. Good things always happen on special days" she gave him a sweet smile, which he sort-of returned with a sideways hopeless one.  
  
~*~*~*~  
Tarroc sat out in the parlor, nervously running his fingers through his hair as the healer, Bridle Deepdelver and his apprentice, Hildibrand Gamgee, looked over his wife. They had been in there for nearly an hour, while Tarroc waited outside, sweating and worrying. He had completely forgotten about Marroc for the time being.  
Suddenly, the door of the parlor opened, and young Hildibrand walked out.  
"Sir," he said, in a polite manner, "Would you like to go in and see your wife?" but Tarroc was already running past him on his way to their bedroom.  
Bridle was packing away his tools in a small tote he carried under his arm. He was a tall and thin snake-like hobbit, rather unusual looking with his pale face, thinning hair and slits for eyes, whereas Hildibrand was almost exactly the opposite- young and boyish looking, with fuzzy brown hair and bright blue eyes. Both smelled strongly of a mixture of different herbs, though, and brought a sort of scary feeling into Tarroc's heart. As a lad growing up in Tookland, whenever there was a healer there, someone usually ended up dying- no one was sure if it was from the poor quality of the healer's training, or from the disease it's self.  
  
Maggie was a state. Her beautiful curly blond Brandybuck mop was messier then ever, and the area around her closed, sleeping eyes where red, as the cough she had had hurt so badly that tears were squeezed out of their chocolate brown depths.  
Tarroc sighed, and took her hand, gazing at his wife with a pained look.  
"Dear..." He murmured.  
"She's dying, Tarroc," Bridle said, solemnly, "There isn't yet a cure for the haze."  
Tarroc's mouth dropped open, "Haze?"  
"It's a disease that runs in the Old Buck family."  
Tarroc sneezed, then looked worriedly back up to the healer after blowing his nose in a handkerchief he procured from his pocket.  
"H-How long?" he asked, in a whisper.  
"6 months, I'd reckon," Bridle replied, "I'm sorry, Tarroc."  
The Took sighed, keeping in the tears; "Lodo will take you back to Bywater. But please... notify me at once if there is anything we can do to cure her...I...I can't raise Marroc on my own."  
Bridle nodded, and the two healers left the room.  
  
~*~*~*~   
  
Just as Lodo's old cart, led by Loch the pony was rattling out the front gate of the Took's property, dusk was falling, and Marroc and Butch were returning from the Old Forest, the hobbit oblivious of the sad news that awaited him at home.  
  
He led Butch into the stable, and locked him up for the night with a scratch on the head, then proceeded into his house.  
  
There was a congealed air about him, as Marroc stepped into the foyer, pushing their large, brown door closed with difficulty. His father was sitting on the sofa in the entrance hall, looking off into space. Marroc tried determinedly to avoid him, still sour for the events of the hours before, but when his father called out his name sharply, he stiffened and the hair on the back of his neck became ridged at the tone of his voice.  
"Yes, da?" he squeaked.  
"Come an' sit by me, lad," Tarroc said, and scared, Marroc complied with his request. Tarroc sighed deeply, "Oi'm...Oi'm sorry I snapped at yew this morn'n, Marroc-Lad." He said. His voice sounded as though it hurt him to apologize, "Oi jus' been nervous 'bout yewr mum-"  
"Is she feelin' betwer?" Marroc asked, a sad look in his eyes.   
Tarroc knew very well that there was no way of getting around Marroc, "No...no, she isn't. Oi...Oi dun know how much longer she is going to be around..."  
  
Marroc's eyes filled with silent tears, "She...she gonna die? Like Clementine?" Clementine had been an old milk cow that Marroc had been rather attached to, and had died shortly before the Ruby saga began. Marroc gave a little sob, before breaking out ino a crying fit. His father turned on him.  
"NO MARROC! Yew dun cry!"  
The lad's teary green eyes gazed up into his fathers, "Why not?"  
"Because," Tarroc ran his hands through his hair again, "Yew never cry! DON'T EVER! That'll make a lass think yew're weak, and yew care ta much about yewrself ta ever care for them. No matter 'ow much it hurts."  
Marroc's mouth dropped open, confused, "Okay..." he said, slowly. The words etched themselves into his brain forever   
~Never cry...~  
~*~*~*~  
A/N:  
*Lastriel Dulinwen: Listening maiden, lady of the nightingale   
**Lastrion: he who listens  
***Randiriel Gil-Estel Percoi: wandering maiden star of hope half-life.  
  
VERY VERY simple elvish names. I made them up just when I was learning to speak the language. Lastriel, is also the translation of 'Samantha' into Elvish, which is my first middle name, and the name that everyone calls me.  
Tarroc is...kinda...yeah... he's got some big problems. Really. The thing that he tells Marroc kind of ruins Marroc's whole life and gives him all kinds of emotional and social problems. Luckily *someone* comes and straightens Marroc out...  
  
Erm... this chapter took so long to get up because I was in Florida for spring break. At my grandparents house. Unfortunately, there was bloody Red Tide at the beach, which sort of ruined everything.   
  
Also, all of me and my close friends from school have hobbit names, which will come in and out of the story at odd intervals. Hildibrand Gamgee is my hommie Melissa, and Saradoc Brandybuck is my not-hommieish hommie Danielle. And of course, I am known as Marroc ^^.   
  
Wow... I have bad English. Too lazy to change it x.X  
  
Anyway, please review, and I am off to watch Moulin Rouge!  
  
~Hippy :) Hobbit 


	5. The Monster

Marroc's Tale  
By Hippy :) Hobbit  
Chapter 5: The Monster  
Dedicated to Niph  
  
~*~*~*~  
Marroc's face seemed to grow sadder every day, and his step lost more and more of its spring. He didn't smile, and his bright eyes never shone true anymore.  
  
Everyone he came in contact with saw it. His mother, his father, Merry, and all the other Bucklanders. He was no longer the bane of their existence, but now a skulking shadow of a lad they all once considered a pest.  
  
The word had spread of Maggie's illness. She wasn't seen putsying around the Took's acreage anymore. Bridle had given her strict orders to stay in bed. And so, every day, Esmeralda would come to her cousin's house with a basket of food, enough to fill the stomachs of the three Tooks.   
  
But Maggie wouldn't eat.  
  
Since everyone who gathered around whispered in dread that the flower of Brandyhall was wilting, she had lost her will. The sad face of her son was the only thing that mattered now.  
  
He stayed by her side as often as he could, which was mostly during the night, when his father was away at his job. Tarroc hadn't allowed Marroc to see his mother very much. He had become insane, in the eyes of his son, doing routines day in and day out. He didn't watch over Marroc much anymore- Maggie was all that mattered. He hogged his wife to himself everyday, until the point where it was difficult to even get the healers in through the door with out him throwing a fit. Everything anyone did in Maggie presence bothered him enough to throw him or her out of the house. Even when poor Marroc gave his mother a goodnight kiss one night, Tarroc yelled at him until he cried, until his silent tears streamed down his face, which made his father even angrier.  
  
  
"NEVER CRY! YOU DON'T EVER CRY!" the yell rang out through the house. The tears stopped, and Marroc gave a few dry sobs, his shoulders shaking. Maggie was crying now.  
  
"TARROC! Tarroc, leave him alone! Let him be, Tarroc!" she sobbed, covering her face with her pillows. But her husband paid no heed. His hands were balled into fists as he stepped closer to his son. Marroc didn't move, but closed his eyes, his body shaking now in trepidation.  
  
Then, in that moment, Tarroc snapped. His fist came flying across Marroc's face, spinning him over and knocking him on to his back. He lie there, still as can be, afraid to move. Dimly, he could hear his mother's sobs in between her coughing.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
"How did you get that black eye?" Merry asked Marroc, quietly. His mother had found Marroc, shaking and scared the morning after his father had hit him in the Took's barn. She had taken him home, given him a warm meal (which he had only taken a few bites of) and changed his clothes, before telling Merry to be extra nice to his cousin.  
  
"I fell." Marroc said simply, avoiding Merry's gaze, his fingers busy with two knitting needles and a whole lot of brown yarn.   
Merry sighed, "Tell me the truth."  
Marroc shook his head, not wanting to remember the events from the night before. Merry sighed again,  
"Will you ever tell me?"   
Marroc shook his head again, his face slack and his fingers still tangled in the brown yarn.  
  
Merry stood, and walked out of the room, to his mother.  
"He wont tell me what happened,"  
Esmeralda sighed and walked into the room with Marroc in it.   
  
His face was emotionless, his eyes glassy- the screaming of his father and the sobbing of his mother echoing in his pointed ears.  
  
His aunt set her hand on his shoulder, and Marroc jumped nearly a foot in the air. She put her hand on the side of his head, "Marroc, please tell us what happened?" Merry had re-entered the room. Marroc looked his cousin in the eye and slowly shook his head. Esmeralda turned to her son and gave him a look to say, 'please leave,' and he did so. She turned back to Marroc, "Please tell ME..."  
  
The lad shook his head, and went back to his knitting.  
~*~*~*~  
A/N Wow... that was a horrible short chapter. 709 words, when most of my chapters are a couple thousand. I didn't want to add anything too quickly, but I want to post this one before I change my mind.   
  
The original Marroc's Tale was supposed to be about how he was abused by his father's rage, but I changed Tarroc a lot. But then, I decided that I had to give the poor lad more pain then what is to come. I feel so rotten x.X But the rating of the story has been upped to PG-13 for this one chapter.  
  
Oh yes, when you review, please add in your post if you would like me to send you a drawing I did of wee Marroc ^^   
  
Replies to reviews for chapter 3:  
  
Takeme2theheavens: Erm... I also like the squirrel, Silent Sam I think is his name. My friend calls me 'squirrel' a lot because I nibble on things o.O Poor   
Estie...  
  
Niph: Yeah, lots of shortness. This chapter is even shorter. I hope it doesn't look like I whipped it out in 15 minutes.  
Replies to reviews for chapter 4:  
  
Natta: four chapters? *blinkblink* Awww... thank you!  
  
Niph: I love goats *huggles Merrytou*  
  
~Hippy 


	6. A Meeting

Marroc's Tale  
By Hippy :) Hobbit  
Chapter 6:  
Dedicated to Niph  
~*~*~*~  
Maggie wasn't getting any better from the lack of food. And the lack of Marroc was making everything even worse. He'd been gone for a week, staying at Brandyhall. But like his mother, he wouldn't eat, and he wouldn't sleep.  
  
Esmeralda tried everything, but his face was emotionless, the emerald eyes empty, though the dark ring around the left was beginning to lighten into a dull brown.  
  
On the eighth day, just as everyone in Brandyhall was sitting down to second breakfast in the great hall, a knock was heard 'pon the front door. It was timid, though loud enough for the whole hall to hear, and quietly, with all eyes upon him, Saradoc arose and went to go answer it.  
  
Maggie Took stood there, looking weary, but strong and determined. Her hair was in a messy bun, her face pale from the sickness, and dark circles under her eyes for being so tired, but she smiled, seeing the Master.  
"You wouldn't happen to have an extra child there, would you, cousin? A Took, with big green eyes and messy brown hair and the darn-cutest little dirty face you ever did see?" she joked.  
Saradoc gave a weak smile at the tease, "and would this cute little face be complete with a nice big shiner, Maggie dear? Upon the left eye?"  
  
Maggie's slight grin dropped, "Please, just let me see him, Saradoc." She said in a saddened tone, stepping forward.  
Saradoc bared the doorway, "tell me what happened, Maggie, please. Your son won't eat, nor sleep, nor talk to anyone. And he flinches whenever someone makes a sudden move...what happened the night before Esmeralda found him out in your barn? Please Maggie. I'm worried"  
  
Maggie looked to him, tears shining in her eyes, "He...he got kicked. He got kicked by his goat."  
  
Saradoc raised an eyebrow, "then why did it take you so long to come and collect him?"  
"I...I...", she now began to sob, "OKAY, FINE! TARROC HIT HIM! HE STRUCK HIM ACROSS THE FACE AND GAVE HIM THE BLACK EYE!" She fell to her knees, a pitiful sight to behold, "Now may I please see my son?"  
  
Saradoc bent down next to her, in shock, and helped the poor lass to her feet, "Of course..." he said, in a comforting tone, rubbing her back. He led her back inside.  
~*~*~*~  
  
"Please, Marroc. Just a few bites?" Esmeralda tried to coax her young nephew, who sustained eating the cheese sandwich that his aunt held out in front of him. His fingers kept fast with the knitting of the scarf- it was getting long, almost longer then he was tall now, and all the stitches were, surprisingly, as straight as someone's who was 50 years older them himself.  
  
Merry's mother sighed. She had been doing a lot of sighing lately because of him. He hadn't eaten for three days and even then it had been but a few bites. They could hear his poor, neglected stomach growling, but he still refused to consume even the tiniest morsel.  
  
Maggie could see the pain in her son's eyes as she entered the great hall with Saradoc and an intense feeling of guilt swept over her. Half of her wanted to go and hold him, the other half was afraid to. Afraid that he may be afraid. Because she had not protected him.  
  
But as she neared, her eyes caught Esmeralda's, and Esmeralda stood, and excused herself (although she knew Marroc didn't really care) and walked away. Maggie came nearer to her son. Tears were in her eyes as she saw the bruise, and the blank look upon his young face... she reached out and touched his shoulder, expecting him to recoil.  
  
But he didn't.   
  
He knew the touch of his mother well, and his body relished in its warmth. The knitting stopped and he looked up to her, the glassy film over his eyes disappearing. She gave a weak smile and hugged him close, a hug that told him that she still loved him. And she always would.   
  
By this time most of the great hall was quiet. All of the Brandybucks had heard of the coming of poor little Marroc and the big shiner he had gotten from an unknown cause, and to see his mother there made them glad inside (but slightly confused them).  
  
Marroc buried his face in his mother's breast, and hugged her tightly back, feeling safe and warm once again. She smoothed his hair, before bringing her hand to her mouth and coughing.  
  
Saradoc's doey brown eyes watched their embrace, sadly. He cleared his throat and everyone looked to him.   
"I need five strong lads," he said, "And you two, Maggie and Marroc."  
Five sturdy Brandybuck lads assembled themselves and followed Saradoc, Maggie and her son to the Master's study.   
~*~*~*~  
"Maggie, you can't go back to your land. You can't go back to Tarroc with your son. Tarroc... when he goes into a rage...there's no stopping him. He'll hurt you, he'll hurt Marroc again... he may even kill him."  
  
Maggie's face went pale and she hugged her Marroc to herself," he doesn't know what he's doing, Saradoc!" she cried, "He...he's just over-protective!"  
"That's what I mean, Maggie love! He's sick! Sick in the head, and he needs to be taken care of!"  
"Taken care of...you're not gonna...?"  
"NO! I am not going to kill him. He needs time away from you and Marroc. He needs to be sent off to Bree, or something. The Thain originally sent him from the Smials to cool off from his fights with Paladin. He needs to cool his anger, Maggie, or else... he may hurt someone again."  
"He wouldn't-"  
"YES HE WOULD, MAGGIE!" Saradoc yelled, "I was there when he almost killed Paladin! He lost his mind!" his eyes cast downwards, "He'd hurt Marroc, if he went crazy like he did on Paladin. They used to be best friends..." his eyes were sincere.  
Maggie sniffled, sounding much like a little child, but she stroked her son's hair as she held him close to her chest, savoring the smell of his hair- the earth, and the forest. She gave a weak nod after watching his bright eyes close as he nodded off to sleep on her lap.  
"Alright. I-I understand..." she stared up into her cousins brown eyes, a meaningful look in them. Saradoc caught it, and replied, "You can Marroc shall stay here. Your animals can stay in the stables- there's enough room I'm sure. Brawndy-" he turned to his servent, "Make up two rooms for them. But first notify the kitchens that we have some very hungry guests. Have them send a tray of food to Maggie's room, enough for her and her son." He turned back to Maggie, "I'm sure you'll be able to get him to eat better then we were." He ruffled his nephew's hair, before leaving the room, signaling for the lads he had chosen to come with him to apprehend Tarroc to follow.  
~*~*~*~  
A/N: that took a long time to get up for being so short, didn't it? Sorry... I have hardly had anytime for writing with all the stress I have been having lately. I shall do reviews for chapter 5 in the next chapter.  
  
~Hippy 


	7. Hippy's Insane Bout Of Randomness

AND NOW! A RANDOM PIECE OF HIPPY HOBBIT RANDOMNESS!!!  
  
Marroc had a little goat  
Little goat  
Little goat  
Marroc had a little goat  
Er...lalalalalalaaaaaaa!  
  
Sorry... I couldn't help myself. Too much echinatia...  
~Hippy 


	8. Moving Out, Moving In

~*~*~*~  
Marroc's Tale  
Chapter 7: Moving out, moving in  
By Hippy :) Hobbit  
Dedicated to Niph  
~*~*~*~  
Saradoc was right on the premonition that Marroc's mother would be the only person to get him to choke down a few bites, but it had only been a few.   
"'Tis more then he had yesterday, to be optimistic. Sorry," Esmeralda sighed, watching how worried Maggie was for her son. He had drifted off for some more much-needed rest in his mother's arms again, shortly after he had eaten what little food they could stuff into him. She cradled his tiny body, hugging him tightly, relieved just to hold her little one again, though still fretful about his malnourishment.   
  
"It's alright," Maggie barely whispered, "You tried your hardest from what I've heard... and he's very stubborn," she stroked her son's cold cheek with a warm hand.  
  
"At least he's sleeping. He wasn't doing much of that either," Merry's mother whispered, "I guess he just needed his mummy," she gave Maggie a reassuring smile as she stood from the bed, "I'll let you two sleep in peace..." she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.   
  
Maggie leaned back into the pillows, laying Marroc's head against her breast, staring at his quiescent appearance as it rose and fell with her every half-breath. It seemed as though she wanted to etch the cherubic features in her mind forever- soft, button nose; fair complexion, slightly tanned from long days playing outside; his light brown hair which was, in her mind, perfectly curled, no matter how scruffy; the smile of contentment on his lips as he snuggled closer to his mother, before yawning and stretching out his little body, fists balled up as he woke. She now savored the moment before. Her son had never been much of a cuddle bunny, though it always brought her comfort to hold him ever since she had gotten sick.  
  
Marroc looked back up to his mother, yawning with a bemused look on his face, making Maggie smile, "Morning, baby," she cooed, pushing a stray curl out of the way of those big green eyes, before planting a small kiss on his cheek, "how are you feeling?"   
Marroc gave a little moan and shook his curly head, "Tired..." he muttered. Maggie smiled in a motherly fashion and pulled him close again in a warm hug that he didn't manage to squirm out of. She softly kissed his forehead, "I've heard you haven't been sleeping much nor eating lately. Why have you been so much trouble for your aunt, you little rascal?" she smiled softly, "you've been causing this whole hall a stir of worry, you know, sweetie? Your poor aunt Esmeralda..."  
  
Marroc didn't answer. He held his mother's eyes in a bewitching stare, "Where's da?" he asked in a flat tone with a slight nervous edge.   
  
Maggie felt the tears in her eyes as she watched his adorable face in its brave form. She sighed, "Your father has to go away for a while, dear," she settled on saying, "we'll be staying here, with your uncle Saradoc for now."   
A puzzled look came over the child's face, "Why's 'ee goin' away?" Maggie sighed again.  
"Marroc, it was wrong that he hit you. Parents aren't supposed to hit their children for no reason. He didn't know what he was doing, so he's going to have to go away now. At least for a while."  
  
Marroc's eyes seemed to deaden, "Is he coming back?"  
Maggie slowly nodded.  
Marroc dropped his gaze from hers, looking down to the bed sheets.  
"Do you not want him to come back?" Maggie asked her son, slowly.  
He didn't answer.   
She slowly lifted his chin up with her index finger, until their eyes met again, "answer me, Marroc," she said, in a slightly stern tone. He shook his head.   
Maggie sighed again, trying to get him to look into her eyes again as he turned away, "why not, sweetie? He'll be better. He-he wont hit you again, I promise."   
"I don want him to come back, Mummy, pleasedontlethim!" Marroc cried, throwing himself at her and hugging her tightly. Maggie finally allowed the tears to spill out as she rubbed his back, "Shhh..." she whispered, quietly, "...It'll be alright...dry your tears," she whispered, looking into his eyes.  
  
There were no tears.  
  
~*~*~*~  
Perhaps it would be easier for them to get Tarroc then any of the 6 Brandybucks thought. The Tooks' house was quiet as they stepped into the foyer, ready and on alert as though entering a den of wildcats.   
"S'alright lads," came a voice. It was Tarroc. He had come down the corridor leading to the entrance hall right as they had come in, "I'm not gonna hurt you or anything. And I know why you're here, too."  
"You do?" Saradoc asked, surprised.  
"Yeah... Maggie told you, didn't she?" he sighed, " I didn't mean to hurt him, honest. You believe me, Saradoc? You know I have a... a problem," the speed of his voice had slowed down very much, 'till the point where he sounded like a little hobbit lad or lass, convincing their da that THEY most certainly weren't the ones tipping the cows, but with the kind of saddened tinge that they knew their alibi wasn't working well.  
  
"That's why we have to take you away. It's because of your problem. I know you love your son very much, and I know you would never hurt him in your right state of mind. But..." Saradoc stopped again. He had been talking slowly, as though to a child, "...you're going to need to learn how to control your anger problem. You and I both know what could happen if you lost it again..."  
  
Tarroc looked to his feet and nodded, slowly. He thought of his son's face, the poor little rascal, and almost shed a tear. He loved him very much, his darling Marroc-Lad, and he was always proud of him. Even for a simple thing like catching a fish, even if it was just a baby. He never showed it...his pride... and now... he wished he had... what if the inevitable HAD happened that night? Tarroc would be a murderer and Marroc would be... he would be... that look of terror in his eyes...  
  
Saradoc's next words seemed to draw Tarroc from his trance; "We're taking you to Bree. You need sometime away from your job, and from your home, and from your family."  
  
The last words hit Tarroc hard in the heart. He could feel the tears, but did not release them. He knew he deserved it...  
"What about Maggie? And..." he couldn't say Marroc's name from the shame he was feeling.  
  
Saradoc gave a weak smile, "they'll be safe at Brandyhall while you're gone... and so will your animals. We have room in the stables..."  
"Aye..." Tarroc said softly, nodding, but not bringing his eyes to meet his cousin's. He heaved a sigh, "So... where are you taking me again?"  
~*~*~*~   
Saradoc and the other lads he had taken with him didn't get back until 3 days later, since they had gone all the way to Bree and back, and then to the Took's place again to retrieve the half-starved animals they had forgot about. The Brandybucks were tired and hungry, and the first place they all headed to (after taking a bath. They had also been EXTREMELY smelly) was the great hall.  
  
It was about lunchtime anyway, and the hall was filled with hungry Brandybucks. 'Twas the harvest season and all the lads that were old enough had been working out in the fields all day; while their mothers, sisters, cousins and aunts prepared for their return home by changing the sheets on their beds, washing them clean clothing, and making them a hardy, warm meal to stick to their ribs while they were out in the cold autumn air.  
  
Upon seeing her husband (his hair still damp from the bath) enter the great hall, the mistress of the hall stood, smiling and walking over to him, only walking because she didn't want to trip, wearing such a long skirt. But she hugged him warmly and kissed him softly on the cheek as soon as they embraced.  
  
"Dear, your hair's gone silly!" Esmeralda laughed, petting down his slightly drippy bangs. Saradoc laughed and kissed his wife again.   
  
Maggie watched them from across the hall. She missed it when Tarroc used to do that. She missed his soft lips and his warm touch... the feel of his curly hair and his smile as she set his hand on his cheek... She missed her husband...  
  
Some of the elders saw Maggie looking at Esmeralda and Saradoc's embrace, and knew what she was thinking.  
"It's her own fault she married that idiot!" one scoffed to another, "we all warned her that he was no good, and now lookit what's gone and happened! If Tarroc had gotten totally out of control... there's no telling what could've happened to our flower."  
"And her lad, too, Amaranth. You can't forget about wee Marroc."  
Amaranth scoffed, "I'm sure that little queer is going to be just like his father when 'ee gets big. Didja hear how 'ee went after that Bracegirdle boy, eh? Jus' about broke his nose too, Paladin said. An I'm sure 'ee got a good whoopin' for that. Probably from Paladin himself."  
Falco frowned, "Really I don't suppose he's queer. He's probably just..."  
"...different? Strange? Odd?"  
"Odd, I suppose. But I'm sure living here will do him some good. I remember once Lodo said the poor lad's got no friends out there. Only that goat of his. It'll be good for him to finally have some Brandybuck influence."  
Amaranth snorted to show that he disagreed, but Falco said nothing in return.   
  
  
After Esmeralda had wandered off to go make Saradoc some tea, he wandered over to where Maggie sat. She turned her head away quickly, back to her son, who was still refusing to eat much. A frown played on her lips, "Marroc, dear, eat your lunch."  
With pleading eyes, the lad looked to his mother, "I'm full," he said, stubbornly.  
Maggie looked into his eyes, as though seeing the food in him, "No, you're not full yet. You've still got a ways to go before you're full. You're only bout up to here..." she put her hand on his knee.  
Marroc frowned at his mother's joke, "I'm not hungry, mummy, " he groaned, in an irritable tone. Maggie sighed again, "Marroc, why won't you eat? You've hardly taken a bite in the last few days! Aren't you starving?"  
He shook his head, his curls flopping, "Uh-uh."  
Maggie gave him a worried look, until she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Saradoc.  
"How you doing, dear?" he asked warmly.  
She gave him a small smile, "He sleeps a lot now, but he hardly eats..."  
"I meant you, Maggs. How are YOU doing?"  
"Alright, I suppose, for myself...but..." she looked back to her son, "...depressed..." she muttered, then asked in a whisper so that only Saradoc would hear it, "how was Tarroc?"  
"He was... alright," came the reply, "He didn't put up a fight... which is good. And he was very sincere too... he... he wanted you and Marroc to know he still loves you-"  
"Did he tell you to tell Marroc he was sorry?"  
"No. I think he wants to do it in person as soon as he gets his anger problem fixed. That healer in Bree seemed pretty confident he could do it."  
"I hope so..." Maggie said, quietly, looking down to her feet, "I want my husband back to normal."  
~I don't think he never really was normal to begin with~ Saradoc said to himself, then replied quickly, "I'm sure he'll be fine when that healer gets done with him."  
"I hope so..." Maggie repeated, a small tear catching on her eyelashes, holding there for a moment, before falling off and hitting the stone floor with a small splash.  
Saradoc, feeling pity, hugged his cousin tightly, rubbing her back as she began to cry more freely, burying her head in his shoulder.  
~*~*~*~  
  
A/N: Okay, I finally got a good-sized chapter up. 4 pages long, which I must say, is only a little more than about half of chapter 2 & 4, which are the longest chapters to date.  
Did you like my little song? *evil cackles* Okay, I was really bored and had "Mary Had a Little Lamb" stuck in my head for some odd reason. Heh.  
  
Niph: Yes. There's going to be a lot of angst for wee Marroc in my story ;.; Lol, no, that was a good comparison. It reminded me of when I was a lot younger just before we moved to the states, and we used to always dare each other to see how long we could hold on to the horses' electrical fence for. It hurt a lot though was oddly satisfying. One of my few memories of Ireland. Then when we moved here, there were these two electrical boxes, and being the new kids, someone dared my brother and I to put one hand on both of them at the same time. Being stupid, we did and got electrocuted! But it was pretty nifty, until my mum found out and got very angry because doing that can give you a heart attack or something. We don't listen well, though, because we still do it ^^   
  
Adious, araviaduche, chio, astalawags, naamarie, adieu   
  
~Hippy Hobbit 


	9. Tarroc & Maggie

~*~*~*~  
  
Marroc's Tale  
  
Chapter 8:  
  
By Hippy :) Hobbit  
  
Dedicated to Niph  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
"Is that him?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Why's he have a goat in here?"  
  
"I dunno. But Mother said we shan't bother him. She says he's a 'problem child'."  
  
The two girls giggled to themselves, watching Marroc cross the hall with Butch walking by him. Saradoc had allowed the goat to stay with Marroc because it seemed to make the lad feel better. He began to eat more often, though it was still tiny bites and nibbles, and he was finally able to sleep without being with his mother. Besides, Butch wasn't that much trouble. He was clean, tame and didn't like staying in the stables when he had to share a pen with 3 other goats anyway.  
  
Marroc looked up. He could hear their chortling, and knew immediately whom they were giggling at. He felt his heart sink to his stomach and looked down to the ground, holding back the tears.  
  
You could never say that Marroc didn't want friends. He did. He wanted them badly. But he had been raised in a very dysfunctional family- something none of the well-to-do Brandybuck children would never understand. He had an abusive father and a loving mother, in denial of her husband's actions until she had witnessed him beat their son.  
  
Maggie had always been the pride of the Buckland. She was credited as being the sweetest; kindest; and, not to mention, fairest hobbit-lass to ever be born in the Shire. This was probably very much an exaggeration, but her parents often boasted of her to visitors. They even promised a gentle-hobbit from Tuckbourgh her hand in marriage.  
  
  
  
Maggie loved playing out in the fields near the Old Forest as a child with her cousins. She often would braid sunflowers in her golden hair, and that was how she became known as The Flower of Brandyhall.  
  
But then came Tarroc, the young, wild refugee of Tookland. He met Maggie one evening out in the wheat fields and they became instantly attracted to each other.  
  
Tarroc was clever and also very curious about the world outside of the Shire. Maggie was too. She was known to hide along the Withywindle paths to observe strangers and listen to them talk of the ways of the wide world, which often got her into much trouble. But the two bonded for 2 weeks, before Tarroc brought Maggie to the harvest festival, which made everyone convinced that they were courting.   
  
Tarroc announced their engagement two years to that date, while the elders of Brandyhall scoffed and scowled at him. They knew their Maggie could do SO much better. But she refused to decline from Tarroc's proposal and they were married before either had even come of age- Tarroc was 27 and Maggie was 23.  
  
Perhaps that's why they waited so long to have children. 20 years, nearly. They hadn't been ready. But Maggie knew now that it should have happened earlier.   
  
Perhaps if it had, they wouldn't be here now. If they had had Marroc 20 years ago, he would be a tweenager, almost of age, probably courting a lass himself. But now he was young, and innocent...hurting...  
  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Marroc had actually been on his way to go see his mother when he'd seen the girls laughing at him. After a few haze spazes had returned from the stress she'd been under, Brandyhall's healer had ordered Maggie to bed until she began to feel better. She'd been sleeping all week and Marroc had not been allowed in to see her, until this morning when he and Butch had managed to slip away from cousin Merry's watch.  
  
Marroc had also managed to coax the cooks into making him up a tray for afternoon tea. ~Sad puppy-dog eyes seem to work well~ he noted for future reference, carrying the awkward tray out. They had been reluctant as the tray it's self was about as big as the lad, and Marroc had a reputation for being not-so-graceful when it came to walking, especially while carrying large items. But he managed to make it to his mother's room with no incident.   
  
He placed the tray down to open the door, then picked it up and carried it in, before setting it down again. Slowly creeping over the edge of the bed, Marroc boosted himself up and crawled towards his sleeping mother.  
  
He stared at her face, soft and smooth it was- though almost 50 years old, she still looked like a young lass.   
  
Just as he was reaching down to touch her face, she jumped and let out a small scream, "MARROC!"  
  
Marroc smiled, not knowing he had scared her right out of her skin, "MUMA!, he yelled, hugging her.  
  
Maggie tried to slow down her breathing, "Marroc! Why did you do that?" she asked in a firm tone.  
  
Marroc's face went sort of pouty, "I jus' wanned to have tea with you, Muma, 'cause Meriadoc norra let me come see you in a while, Muma, so I ran away from him and brought you tea," He said it all in one breath, then nodded, making his curls bounce up and down like springs.   
  
Maggie sighed, "They're keeping you away from me for a reason... this may be contagious and that means you might get sick... no one is sure yet."  
  
Marroc pouted, " I only wanted ta come have tea with you, Muma..."  
  
His mum began to stroke his soft hair, "Sweetie... I just don't want you getting sick...you're very susceptible to diseases since you have had problems with your hear-"  
  
But the lad had pulled himself away from his mother, jumped off the bed, grabbed Butch's collar and left the room in a huff.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The Autumn Festival was almost here, and that meant that a lot of other hobbits were coming to stay at Brandyhall through the Festival and Yule.  
  
Among them this year was Paladin and his family, for the first time in a while.   
  
Paladin was smug- the news of the Buckland Tooks had reached him and he spent a great deal of time gloating about it to his wife and children, all of whom were starting to get pretty annoyed, especially since they had been in the carriage with him for a few hours, and all he did was repeat himself.   
  
So when they arrive at Brandyhall, FINALLY, all were rather relieved to get off the carriage and get away from their father.  
  
Eglantine hurried off to find Esmeralda (she was eager to see Maggie- she'd brought her all the healing herbs and salts that she could fit into a basket). Pimpernel, Pervinca and Pearl went off to find some cousins to play with, and Pippin went to find Merry.  
  
Paladin stepped out of the carriage last, which happened to be right as Marroc was passing by with his goat. The two locked eyes at once, and both sets narrowed. They didn't say anything to each other, nor did they come any closer, but Marroc kept on walking in the direction of the Old Forest. As soon as he'd passed, Paladin went inside, to talk with Saradoc.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
A/N: ACK! So much was supposed to happen in this chapter that didn't! At first I had another mushy moment between Marroc and his muma, but then I decided not to add it in since there was one LAST chapter. That took off a lot of this chapter. But next one shall be longer and more fulfilling (I hope...) and... YAY! Pippin'll be back! Frodo and Bilbo Baggins also might decide to grace us with their presence *cough*mushrooms*cough*... erm... R/R PLEASE! Reviews next chapter...   
  
Love ya,  
  
~Hippy  
  
P.S. this will be posted as soon as possible. We are having a series of thrunderboomers where I live, so it may be a while since the server went down. 


	10. Cousins

~*~*~*~  
  
Marroc's Tale   
  
By Hippy Hobbit  
  
Chapter 9: Cousins   
  
Dedicated to Niph  
  
A/N: I would like to take this time to announce that 'Marroc' is NOT pronounced 'Mare-rock', 'Mare-ock', 'Mer-ick', or 'Mer-ock' as people have mistaken it for previously. The protagonist of this story's name is properly pronounced 'Mare-ick'. However, 'Tarroc' is properly pronounced 'Tare-ock'  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Marroc's little outing hadn't gone as good as he had hoped it would. He waited at his fairy tree until it got cold and the sun began sinking into her bed for the night, before he decided to go back to Brandyhall.  
  
Both Gildor and Lastriel had promised him that they would visit before the days got shorter, but the sun was beginning to sink earlier and earlier everyday, and neither had come. He'd hoped that at least one would come today, but nothing happened. Not even the dove whose life Marroc had resuscitated came to grace him with its presence.   
  
Marroc and Butch trudged back to the Hall, the wee hobbit lad's head drooping and a frown on the cherubic face. To darken his mood even farther, it seemed, the clouds massed above, thunder boomed overhead and it began to pour. Marroc bundled up closer in his jacket and walked home, not caring to quicken his pace at all.  
  
He and Butch were soaked to the bones by the time they stepped into Brandyhall's foyer. No one was there when they stepped in, so they went immediately to the room that Marroc had been given. The lad changed and dried himself off, then bundled up in a warm, red sweater, brown trousers and a brown scarf and went to the great hall to get a bite to eat, and possibly see his mother, if she had been allowed to rise from her bed for some of the celebrations that were to be taking place that night.   
  
He had to leave Butch there, though, as his uncle Saradoc had told him that the goat would not be allowed to accompany him at meals. But before he left he dried his friend off, wrapped him up in a warm blanket, and fed him some of the cabbage he had stolen from the cooks that morning. He put the rest in a box under his bed, patted the goat's head and went off to the great hall.  
  
The hall seemed to be more crowded then ever that evening, though it was because Paladin's family hadn't been the only ones to arrive that day. Most were Tooks, or distant relations of the Brandybucks from all over the Shire, some of whom had been traveling for days. Most were laughing and joking, catching up with their friends and relatives.  
  
Marroc spied his mother sitting with Eglantine and Esmeralda, her two best friends, and smiled a small smile. He was still feeling a bit sour from when she had gotten angry with him before that afternoon, but he was enthralled to see her away from her bed and laughing, despite the dark circles under her eyes.  
  
Maggie was wrapped in a warm blanket and was wearing trousers under her skirts to keep her legs warm. She looked incredibly tired and her golden hair was in a messy braid.   
  
The lad was just about to go over and speak with her, when something far heavier than he was landed on him, as things of said size had nasty habits of doing. It crushed him to the floor and temporarily knocked the wind out of him.  
  
When he was finally able to refocus his eyes, Marroc found that one Peregrin Took was the particular creature that had attacked him. He smiled warmly at his cousin, happy for the first time that day, "Hullo, Peregrin!"  
  
Pippin grinned evilly as he climbed off, "Hiya, Mer!"  
  
Marroc sat up and stretched, rubbing the back of his head, "Why'd ya tackle me?"  
  
Pippin shrugged but didn't answer verbally, "Wanna play with me? Merry is bein' stupid an' he wont play with me no more, 'cause he says I'm too little," he pouted.  
  
Marroc smiled a little to himself ~At least someone agrees with me on the fact that he's stupid...~ "Whatcha wanna do then?" he asked.  
  
Pippin looked around nervously, before grabbing Marroc's hand and pulling him away.  
  
He led him out of the Great Hall and down a corridor, far deep into the depths of Brandyhall. Marroc followed eagerly, wondering what they were going to do.  
  
At last they came to a door, nearly 15 minutes later. Pippin opened it and led his cousin into a room that the lad had never seen before.  
  
It was fairly elegant, and consisted of not only one room, but also several, as Marroc saw by the number of round doors around the place.   
  
This was the place that Paladin and his family always stayed in when they came to visit the Hall.  
  
Pippin began walking towards the door that was farthest right. He opened it and slipped in, Marroc following him closely.  
  
This had to be the room that Pippin was staying in, Marroc knew. He didn't think anyone else in the family could have such a messy room.  
  
The room was, in fact, very like the one that Marroc was staying in. Except messier. A whole lot messier. It looked as though Pippin had purposely flung all the belongings he'd brought with him blindly about the room. It looked more than a bit awkward, as he'd only just gotten there that day and it already looked as though he'd been there for months and never cleaned it. But then again, some children can manage this quite easily.  
  
Marroc raised an eyebrow at the display, "Didn't yewr muma ever teach yew how ta clean yewr room?"  
  
Pippin didn't answer, yet again. He had busied himself in one of the bags that had probably once contained some of the clothes that were hanging on the four-poster and stuck on the paintings that were on the walls. He pulled something out that Marroc couldn't see, so he stepped forward.   
  
Pippin turned around, "Oi found some swwords!" he held them out for his cousin to see, "See? D'yew wanna have a swword fight?"  
  
Marroc blinked, eyeing these 'swwords', "Those aren't swwords."  
  
Pippin blinked, and then turned them over in his hands, "They aren't?"  
  
Marroc sighed, "They're knitting needles."   
  
"Oh." Pippin might have said more, if the door hadn't flown open at the time. There stood Pervinca, looking a more than a little bit angry, "THERE YOU ARE, PIP!" She strode in and took Pippins hand in one hand and Marroc's in the other, then began to lead them out, "It's supper time and mum is worried sick, seeing as how you weren't with Merry when he came in from the barn, Pip, and you, Marroc... well... your mother couldn't find you either. It's a good thing you were together, otherwise the whole Hall might be out searchin'!"  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The two Took families sat together that night for the first time ever. Marroc sat in between his mother and Pippin and kitty-corner to his uncle. The two didn't say a word to each other the whole meal, nor did they look to each other, not even a glance.  
  
Tarroc was not mentioned at all during the supper. It didn't seem as though Maggie was ashamed of her husband- but she knew Paladin well enough to know that saying something might inflate his ego.  
  
After supper was finished, the little ones were sent to bed for the evening, a few of the men-folk went to the den to talk with Saradoc and some of the women-folk went to the parlor to talk with the Mistress.   
  
Since all of their parents had been allowing, Merry, Marroc and Pippin had yet another little 'slumber party' in Merry's room, seeing as how Merry and Pippin were magically able to patch things up without even talking to each other.  
  
And, of course, Butch came along with Marroc too.  
  
Pippin thought it was a bit odd at first to be sleeping in the same bed as a goat, but Merry didn't seem to mind as much as he was already sharing the same house, among other things, with the beast.  
  
They kept the candles burning in their holders that night for some unknown reason, as they talked throughout the night. The bed that Merry slept in was easily large enough for him, the goat and his two tiny cousins.  
  
Marroc and Merry spoke of their various (although separate) adventures along the banks of the Brandywine, while Pip chatted on about the many pranks he'd found affective on his sisters, and the mishaps and punishment he'd gotten into with the ones that didn't work.  
  
It wasn't until Marroc mentioned his elf friends that tension began to arise among the cousins.  
  
Pippin had mentioned that his father hardly approved of silly notions about elves and fairy queens (which was rather odd, as the Tooks were well known for that rumor that one of their ancestors had taken a fairy wife).  
  
In the end, however, Pippin (surprise surprise) ended up on top of Marroc, in a huff for insulting his father by saying that Elves were NOT nonsense and that Paladin was silly because he didn't believe what people said unless he saw it himself.  
  
Pippin was quite strong, stronger than Marroc. He was able to keep himself from being kicked off by the younger lad, and from being pulled off by Merry. Merry had managed to get him off a few times, but the smaller lad kept jumping out of his older cousin's arms and jumping at Marroc again, punching and kicking and screaming.   
  
This went on for a good 5 minutes, before the door opened, and Pippin feared that it would be his father, who, if he saw his son beating Marroc up, may take him away and not let him stay with Merry. He climbed off Marroc quickly and quickly through himself under the covers beside Merry. Marroc moaned and stayed where he lay. His nose bleeding and a brilliant blue bruise beginning to bloom on his eye.  
  
But the person at the door was not Paladin. It wasn't Saradoc either, nor any of the parents. A skinny tween with big blue eyes opened the door. His hair was claret and his skin ivory. His face seemed angelic and elf-like as he stepped into the room, his eyes twinkling as the light form the candle danced upon them.  
  
Merry smiled, recognizing his favorite cousin at once. He stood, and practically ran to greet him, wrapping Frodo in a tight hug, as the older hobbit tousled his hair, roughly.  
  
"Frodo! I didn't know you were coming this year!" Merry withdrew as Pippin smiled and called out the eldest's name, following in said Brandybuck's suite and running to hug him.   
  
Marroc had finally managed to sit up properly. He rubbed his bleeding nose on his sleeve, as if trying to re-gain his dignity, and let out a stifled cough. All three head turned towards him, and he felt so alone all of the sudden.  
  
He didn't know this new hobbit, but it seemed as though Merry and Pippin did. And very well at that fact.  
  
  
  
Marroc soon found out that Frodo was from Hobbiton, a village not a horrible distance from Tookland. But he had once lived in Buckland, until his parents drowned in the Brandywine. Then he had gone to live with his cousin, Bilbo, in Hobbiton. He was nice to Marroc, overly nice, the lad observed and found it slightly annoying. But Butch took to him like a charm, so Marroc said nothing too horrible.  
  
At least he made Pippin apologize for inflicting so much pain upon his cousin, which was good. It seemed as though a horrible conscious was another thing that Marroc and Pippin had in common- the lad seemed so remorseful, a few tears managed to squeeze their way out of his big, green eyes and dribble down his cheeks and chin on to his nightshirt.   
  
Marroc muttered something about along the lines of 'I forgive you' and was engulfed in a gigantic hug from his cousin, which knocked him off the bed and on to the floor, much to his displeasure, as the floor was made of wood and he badly bruised his backside upon the fall. But, nevertheless, he settled in Merry's bed comfortably with Pippin, while Frodo and Merry talked,  
  
"I'm in the room next door and I just came over because I heard the noise..."  
  
"Well, you can stay if you'd like," Merry said, happily.  
  
But Frodo didn't answer. He took a look at Marroc and Butch, and then went back to Merry  
  
"What's with the goat?" he asked  
  
Merry shrugged, "It's Marroc's. He takes it with him everywhere. Hutch, I think is it's name."  
  
"BUTCH!" Marroc growled, loudly, a note of indignity in his voice.   
  
"Butch, I mean," Merry corrected himself, raising his eyebrows at Frodo who gave a small, polite smile and sat on the edge of Merry's bed.  
  
"I think I'll take up your offer, Merry," he said, "if none of you mind staying with me tonight... I don't snore, I swear..."  
  
  
  
"Oi dun mind.." Pip said, "Mer?"  
  
Marroc thought for a moment, then shook his head, laying his head on the now-sleeping Butch, like a pillow. The auburn-colored goat bleated in his sleep.  
  
Marroc snickered, "Butch doesn't either..."  
  
Frodo laughed, "Either that, or he's snoring..."  
  
Everyone laughed and even Marroc, who'd been rather morbid lately, snickered slightly.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
(A/N: Replies to Reviews:  
  
TakeMe2TheHavens: Yes, Estie, running into electric fences. Very fun. Try it sometime. Though not right after you've A. taken a shower or B. Run through the sprinklers. Also don't lick it. Or take a pee on it. Just a warning. You can spit, if you want, but I wouldn't recommend it. Lt. Hippy's rule for masochism (as in beating yourself up masochism, not the icky kind *shudders*)...   
  
*grins* I get all the ideas of wee Pip and Marroc from Robin Girl's stories. She's an excellent writer, as I've already said before. So go read her stories. Now. All of you. Or I'll sick Marty on you all. Grrr.  
  
Niph: Heh... decided to leave the *elmeluelselhelreloeloelmelsel* 'till next chapter. But I promise that it'll be good. Oh yes it will *evil cackle*. Hmmm... cookies.  
  
~Hippy 


	11. Ill Fated Mushrooms

~*~*~*~ Marroc's Tale Chapter 10: Chain Of Events By Hippy Hobbit Dedicated to Niph (Grown-up Marroc: *wavewave*)) ~*~*~*~  
  
Pippin and Marroc awoke early the next day. Well, Pippin woke up first, but Marroc could hardly sleep any longer when his cousin pounced on him and bit into his arm at the same place where the wolf who'd attacked him earlier that summer had sunk it's teeth into, leaving 7 long, deep scars. Marroc had yelled out in pain and kicked Pippin off. Both fell on to the floor and wrestled for quite sometime, though neither Merry nor Frodo awoke.  
Pippin finally ended up on top as both panted for breath, then they broke out laughing. Butch awoke and bleated at them, as though to scold them for waking him. Marroc looked up from flat on his back, "Oh hush!" and Pippin giggled. He stood up and pulled Marroc up by his arm and the two peered up over the edge of the bed, watching their cousins snoozing soundly.  
"Should we wake them?"  
Pippin shook his head, "Naw. Merry'll be cranky."  
Marroc shrugged, "Okay. You hungry?"  
"Yeah"  
"Let's go eat then."  
The two cousins went off for the great hall for breakfast.  
  
While they were mid-way through their meal, Merry and Frodo strode in, both telling them off considerably for not waking them.  
It seemed that when Merry was around his older cousins (E.g. Frodo) he didn't act like as much of a friend to Pippin as he did when it was just the two of them. Marroc found this slightly confusing. Of course, Merry wasn't always incredibly evil to him; on the contrary, when he was in a considerably good mood, and without the distraction of Pippin or any other cousins, he could be rather amicable towards his youngest cousin. But it didn't happen very often.  
  
Merry and Frodo sat down and ate, but the two younger lads couldn't stand the glares they were being shot, so the stood and excused themselves, and began wandering the many halls and corridors of the Hall, looking for something to occupy themselves with.  
  
It was during second breakfast when they returned to the Great Hall to eat when the chain of events was started.  
  
It actually, first began when Merry came back to the hall. For some reason, he was feeling rather cantankerous, and upon discovering that there was no more maple for his pancakes, he sent Pippin and Marroc in to get some for him, saying it would be a good way of making it up to him for not awakening him this morning.  
The kitchen was running a wee bit behind that day, since the arrival of the visitors was still having an affect on the weary cooks, most of who had been up all night, washing dishes from the night before. No sooner had the two lads walked in, had they been snatched up by one of the aids, to wash dishes.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Several hours later, after some most extensive scrubbing, Marroc and Pippin trudged out of Brandyhall.  
The younger of the two followed his cousin, sulking a bit over his hands, which were raw and stinging from the lye soap. Some of his scabs were starting to chap in the cold air, as well. He stuffed his sore paws in the pockets of his jacket, miffed both at Merry, and Pippin.  
  
"Are you SURE you know where we're going?" he asked, annoyed.  
  
Pippin nodded. " Merry an' Oi go 'ere all the time."  
Marroc sighed, shivering, slightly annoyed at the mention of said Brandybuck. He took his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together a few times, flakes of dry skin chapping off, along with some dried dirt from under his nails. He sighed again, cold, as a chilly breeze blew through, biting at their faces and nipping at their ears.  
  
Pippin blinked, looking back to the hunched up Marroc, himself being rather warm with a new scarf and glove set, presented to him only last night by his Auntie Essy, "See?" he pointed up ahead, to a bend in the path, "Behind 'er!" He began to run, and Marroc, taking his hands from his pockets, followed.  
  
Though his legs were not much longer than his cousins, Marroc got there well before Pippin, who was having problems, as various tree roots seemed to be getting in the way of his large, hobbity feet, and causing him to fall and land on his face. Marroc slid to a stop. It was, indeed, a patch of the largest mushrooms he'd ever seen, which was surprising this late in the year. He began picking them as fast as he could, before his cousin could get any, stuffing them in his pockets and mouth.  
  
From about 5 feet back, Pippin launched at Marroc, hitting him with hardly a yelp. Spitty mushrooms flew out of the latters mouth, as Pippin grabbed him around the stomach, pulling him backwards off his knees and trying furiously to crawl over him, whilst Marroc kicked out at him.  
Pippin seemed to be winning- he was on top, trying to subdue his cousin, who was about the same size, though not as quick, when he suddenly spied an amazing sight. A pile of cow dung was only 3 feet away. he glanced back at Marroc. The Tookish emeralds of the younger soon filled with fear as he glanced to where his cousin was looking, to the dreaded dung, and then back to his cousin.  
  
A wordless struggle soon incurred, as Pippin tried his best to push Marrocs fuzzy head into the dung, though Marroc, managing to square his shoulders between two tree roots that held above the stinky mess, tried his best to fight off Pippin, boxing at his ears and trying to kick him off. A few times, one shoulder would slip and he would have to force one hand down to support himself.  
  
The two wrestled for sometime, Pippin trying to force the stubborn Marroc to fall into the stinky mass, until the latter finally managed to get in a single kick to Pippins face, sending him sprawling backwards. Marroc managed to scramble from his nook and try to get away, but Pippin quickly recovered from his blow and started to scramble after him. He pinned Marroc down on his stomach, sitting on his back.  
  
Gasping for air, Marroc yelled, "STOPIT! I CANT BREATHE!"  
Pippin blinked, a bruise coming over his eye. He glared, "Why'd yew kick me?"  
Marroc coughed, "You were forcing my head in that muck, you dolt!  
Pippin scowled indignantly, looking away. His eyes immediately caught the dung, and he stared, as if interested by it. Marroc looked at it for a second, trying to figure out what was so great, but then.  
  
Both seemed to know what the other was thinking. Pippin let go of Marroc immediately and both scuttled over to the mushrooms in a matter of moments.  
  
Marroc drew his knife from his pocket and picked up one of the mushrooms in a hurry, slitting it open. Watching him, Pippin blinked. Marroc turned back to him.  
"What are you waiting for? Get the smelly!"  
  
Pippin looked dully at him, "How?"  
  
Marroc raised an eyebrow. This hadn't occurred to him. He looked from his cousins face, then to the dung, then to the mushrooms, trying to think of a plan.  
  
"Here!" he found a large chunk of bark and handed that and his knife to his cousin, "Scrape it on with that. Then bring it over."  
  
Pippin did as was ordered and brought the sticky, smelly mess over to Marroc, who tried his best not to recoil, in case his hands might slip and he'd drop it all over himself.  
  
They worked quickly, using Marrocs knife and also some sticks to scoop the dung into the mushrooms. Both surely thought this to be a huge waste of such wondrous food, but still. it was a hell of a way of getting Merry back!  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
(A/N: Wow. that took a long time, didn't it? Ha, like almost all summer. I'm horribly lazy though, so you'll have to excuse me, my loyal readers *dull silence**glances around* I mean Estie and Niph.  
  
Thank you to all of you that reviewed chapter 10, or whatever. As to those of you commenting on my spelling and punctuation, please excuse that. I'm horribly stupid, if you must know (HA! I just proved it by typing 'mush' instead of 'must'. my brain is muuuuush. maharaja. o.O)  
  
But wait! Before you REVIEW (which I know you WILL, AREDHEL) please, remember to go to my fictionpress account and r & r my many poems. They rhyme *winkwink*)  
  
~Hippy 


	12. In Plenty Of Trouble

~*~*~*~  
  
Marrocs Tale  
  
By Hippy Hobbit  
  
Chapter 11: In Plenty of Trouble  
  
Dedicated to Niph  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The two little hobbits had returned to Brandyhall just as the sun was setting, their mushrooms being toted along in a makeshift basket they'd managed to put together using bark. They had also managed to find some wild herbs to underline the basket with, as to ward off the horrible stench admitted from the dung-filled mushrooms.  
  
  
  
Anxious for their prank altogether made the two bored out of their minds. After hiding the mushrooms in Marrocs room, they took to wandering about the hall looking for something to do. The ideas of stealing Old Gaffer Armaraths cane was the first thing that came to their minds, as Marroc, joining up with some of the older lads, had once done this before, not realizing the trouble he'd caused the poor old hobbit.  
  
Pippin rather liked this idea, to say the least. Anything to keep the two of them busy, until the feast.  
  
It took them some time to find Armarath through the entire Hall, but they finally discovered him snoozing and snoring loudly on a sofa in the Masters lounge. Sneaking quietly to his side, they surveyed over him... no cane was to be seen.  
  
Pippin looked up at Marroc, puzzled, "Where is it?"  
  
Marroc shrugged. Just then, laughter came from outside of their room. Merrys laughter. He and several others (not including Frodo... he'd refused to join in such ruckus, thinking it wrong in his heart to cause such tribulations to an older fellow) soon came back into the room, Merry holding the cane.  
  
"Looking for this, aye?" he asked his two younger cousins. Marroc, hardly thinking before he spoke (and also not noticing that the old gaffer had woken up behind him), yelled, "Hey! That's OURS! WE was going to steal it!"  
  
Merry blinked, his eyes widening as they fell over his old uncle, who smiled, "HA! I knew you were the little criminal all these times, MARROC TOOK! You wait until I tell your uncle what you did! You'll not be able to sit for weeks if I have MY way!" He turned to Merry, "Meriadoc, thank you SO much for catching him!" he held out his hand for the cane, as all the younger hobbits in the room blinked dully at each other.  
  
Merry thought hard. Of course, he didn't want to get caught, but the nasty glare that Marroc was now shooting him... the kind of glare that could break glass... almost made him confess. But then a rather selfish thought shot through his head... oh well, he IS just a little squirt... he handed Armarath back the cane, as he said, 'You're most welcome," before leading his friends out of the lounge.  
  
Armarath glanced down at Marroc and Pippin, obviously angry. Marrocs cheeks flushed with both anger and shame at being stupid enough to have an outburst like that. Pippin glanced back and forth between the two of them, as Armarath spoke, "You're no better than your father, Marroc Took. He used to steal things from old gaffers and gammas when he was your age, just to cause inconvenience to them... then he went on to bigger things! I won't be surprised if you're a murderer as well when you're his age!" With that, he stormed out of the room, perhaps off to find Saradoc.  
  
Marrocs ears were bright red now, and his cheeks pink as his glare bore a hole though the door as Armarath shut it behind him, "My da never killed no one!" he growled to himself. Pippin blinked, then, trying to be cheerful, said, "Well... at least we can get Merry back with our mush-SURPRISE," he said, forgetting that they had decided that was what they would call the prank if ever they were to speak about it before it went into action, "...maybe we can even slip one to 'im as well!" he laughed, referring to Armarath. Marroc didn't laugh, though.   
  
Pippin sighed, bored once again, "Well?"  
  
"Well what?"  
  
"Now what we doin'?"  
  
Marroc shrugged, "I got no ideas."  
  
There was silence for another moment, before Pippin spoke, quiet, but not timid, "We could have a swword foight."  
  
"We ain't got no swwords, though,"  
  
Pippin shrugged, "We gots those other things, though. Lets use those."  
  
Marroc shrugged. His mother had told him once that he should NEVER play with knitting needles... but he was bored. Besides, what damage could it do?   
  
Half-hour later, he would have been able to answer this.  
  
He and Pippin had gone back to Pippins room and pulled out the knitting needles.   
  
"'Kay, you can be the Goblin King, an' I'll be uncle Bilbo!" Pippin had said, and Marroc blinked.  
  
"Why'd you get to be Uncle Bilbo?" he asked, a note of anger in his voice. Though he had yet to meet his uncle Bilbo, Merry had gone off to visit him at Bag End a few times and come home telling all the stories of how he'd escaped giant spiders, and fought off goblins and wolves and rode on the backs of eagles to Marroc, who listened eagerly.   
  
"'Cause I said so! Besides, they're MY swwords!" Pippin replied, making Marroc angry.  
  
"Why you...!" he lunged at his cousin, sinking the needle into his thigh and punching his face in. Pippin screamed out in pain as dark, red blood sank through his trouser leg and also out his nostrils. He swung his arm holding his own needle around blindly, his whole body twitching in pain. The needle connected with Marrocs own arm, going completely through the skin, but narrowly missing the bone. Marroc also screamed, falling over and whimpering in pain as blood gushed from his own arm.  
  
Luckily for the both of them, Eglantine was just entering the antechamber when she heard the screams. Fearing the worse, she flew into her sons room to find him and his cousin on the ground. She let out a gasp of horror and, unable to think of what to do, she picked them up, Pip first and then Marroc, and laid them on the bed.   
  
"What did you two do?!" she asked, pale as she inspected the wound on Pippins leg.  
  
"Swword foight." Marroc said, sniffling and trying his best not to cry.  
  
"Heavens!" his aunt gasped, as she saw the knitting needle sticking out of his arm. Just then, Pimpernel, also having heard the screams but from farther away, came into the room looking worried.  
  
"Pimmy, help!" Eglantine called to her daughter, handing her Marroc, who was lighter in weight, and also not bleeding as badly. Pimpernel, startled a great deal, stood back, staring at the gaping wound and knitting needle still in her little cousins arm, but then her mother, with Pippin at her hip, grabbed her arm and drug her and her burden out of the room. They hurried down to the infirmary, which was nearly at the other end of the Hall, a trail of blood all the way there.   
  
Eglantine pushed open the door quickly, and lay her son down on the patient bed, then took Marroc from her daughters arms and set him down beside him. Healer Fillibold was nowhere to be seen. She pushed open the door into the quarters where he put his other, more sickly patients, "FILLI! I NEED YOU RIGHT NOW!" She screamed, before going back to Marroc and Pippin and wiping the perspiration and tears off both their faces with a handkerchief. Filli, who'd been in the other room, taking care of Marrocs own mother, quickly apologized to her and flew out of the room to see the seen of carnage. Maggie, hearing her sons whimper, followed him out,  
  
"MARROC!" She screamed in terror when she saw him. But dizziness suddenly overtook her and she almost collapsed, but Eglantine had run forward to catch her and helped her to a chair...  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Half-hour later, after the needle had been extracted from Marrocs arm and both boys had been patched up, they still sat in the healers antechamber, heads hung as Paladin, Saradoc, Maggie and Eglantine all stared down at them, angrily.  
  
The first initial shock was passed for Maggie, and now, relieved that the wound had been patched up and her son was in no immediate danger, she was rightly miffed. She glared down at her son as Paladin ranted. Marroc seemed to shrink under her gaze, unable to look up and meet her eyes. His face was still pale from blood loss, but he was blushing internally.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
After this, and the whipping they'd received from Paladin, both lads, sullen and ashamed were unsure whether they would still pull off the prank. As another part of their punishment, they were to be put to bed without supper, therefore missing the Harvest Feast. But the anger at Merry still burned in his heart as Marroc lay in his bed. He was still angry for how nasty he'd been to both him and Pippin that morning, but also for blaming him in the stealing of Armaraths' cane, which Marroc had gotten an extra whipping for.   
  
He lay in his bed, trying to think of a way that he could fetch Pippin to help him set up the mushrooms for Merry without getting caught... after all, he was all the way at the end of the Hall. Besides, he'd been given a crutch to aid with his walking. And people would notice a limp-along.   
  
~I'll have to do it myself!~ Marroc thought to himself.  
  
He picked up the basket of mushrooms in his un-injured arm and, as quiet as he could, opened the door and snuck out. The corridors were empty- not a soul could be seen, as all were at the feast. He had no need to creep through crowds of people then, until he got to the Great Hall. With no incident, he managed to make it all the way there, and even pushed open the big doors without anyone who knew he wasn't supposed to be there catching him.   
  
Standing in a far-off corner, he glanced around, looking for his cousin. He spotted him at a table that was fairly close- but also near his mother. Marroc broke out in a sweat, remembering how she'd glared at him earlier. He felt a sudden pit of regret in his stomach, wondering whether this was really a good idea, but looking back to see the smug look on Merrys face as he laughed with some of his friends, perhaps recalling the earlier events, he decided, yes, it was.  
  
The mushrooms still under his arm, he crept, cat-like through the crowds, careful to avoid Saradoc, Paladin, Eglantine, and his mother. He also tried his best not to look suspicious. No one took a second glance at him.  
  
He finally made it to the table where Merry was standing, along with Frodo and an older hobbit that Marroc didn't know. He crawled under the tablecloth, careful not to be noticed. He then slid the basket on to the table and waited.  
  
"Ooh.." said a voice, "...stuffed mushrooms! I didn't notice these here before... my favorite!"  
  
Marrocs eyes widened. The voice was not Merrys.  
  
It was Frodos.   
  
Marroc felt a sting of guilt and fear, and before he knew it, he leapt out from under the table, "NO! Don't eat those!" he yelled to Frodo, as his feet got tangled in the tablecloth and he fell over causing the table cloth and most of the food to come raining down on him.  
  
. But it was too late for Frodo as well. He'd bitten into the mushroom, chewed for a moment, and a look of both disgust and horror came over his face. Marroc looked up, just in time to see him turn red and start to sweat, then, trying to be polite, took a napkin to his mouth and spit it out.  
  
But all heads were turned towards Marroc, lying in a pile of chairs, with the tablecloth wrapped around his legs, a chair on his back, and various food items strewn about his body. But worst of all... the bowl of dung-filled mushrooms had fallen on his head, his hair mixed with cow muck and mushrooms. His mother and all his cousins were staring at him, their eyes seeming to be both curious, and annoyed.  
  
He went pink.  
  
(A/N: *gringrin* Yum... mushrooms. Poor Frodo. Poor Marroc. Poor Pippin.  
  
Reviews:  
  
Niph: *winkwink* Haha... now she'll be able to understand. Goats rock. And that is... quite frightening... considering how high my voice sounds on the phone. I got bored and re-did my friends answering machine as a joke to her mum, and every time I call and nobodys there, I get to hear myself... talk to... myself... o.O  
  
Call meh. Everytime I try, you're not home, and I'm here all the time. Well, except when I'm at school. And shopping. Oh, just call me!  
  
DaneGohan: You're Niphs sister, right? Yes, I ish a fellow goat lover. Did you know in Finland on Christmas, Santa rides a straw goat into the towns instead of a sleigh? Goats rock. My spell check is retarded. Yeah, I realized how much of an idiot I am for putting those parts in the story. But you gotta remember, I was going through a rough time when I wrote those chapters, so my mind probably wasn't all there. Then again, it never is. Yah, that's a weak excuse, I know. But, I promise, no more CRAP like that *nodnod*  
  
~Hippy 


	13. Elves and Thier Issues

~*~*~*~  
  
Marrocs Tale  
  
By Hippy Hobbit  
  
Chapter 11: Elves and Their Issues  
  
Dedicated to Niph  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
It was nearly Yuletide.  
  
Neither Gildor nor Lastirel had come to see their little hobbit friend.  
  
This matter was depressing Marroc more and more as the days got shorter. His mother had taken to bed once more, and he was hardly ever allowed in to see her. Pippin and his family had taken their leave the day after the harvest feast, Pippin waving goodbye to him sadly, still sporting a crutch under his arm from the back of the wagon. Marroc had only once felt so alone, and he hardly wished to think back to that time.  
  
Butch was still with him, of course. But Merry refused to talk to him since the mushroom incident.   
  
He'd been in SERIOUS trouble after pulling that one. Saradoc had given him a whipping he wouldn't soon forget, and nearly every adult present had given him a lecture at the time, including the elderly hobbit who had been standing near Frodo and Merry at the time of the mishap, who was in fact THE Bilbo Baggins. Ever since Frodos parents had died, Bilbo had been in charge of the boys well being. Thus, Marroc could easily understand why he'd been the one to give him the longest of the 7 or so lectures- eating dung could hardly consist of being well.  
  
Marroc had asked Merry if Pippin would be coming for Yule, but, of course, he'd received no answer. This dampened his spirits even more, causing him to have almost nothing to look forward to in the future. The winter seemed so long and dreary. To complete this picture of misery, he'd caught a sniff of a cold and was forced by his elders to stay inside, cooped up in his room with only Butch for company, staring out into the snowy grounds.  
  
Marroc loved snow, and every year when it came, his senses seemed to go wild with delight. The sight of it, the feeling, the taste, the smell! Even the sound of it...or lack thereof- the cool quiet in the dead of night, when he'd sneak up to look out the front main window at his house and see the huge flakes falling down, piling up around the sill...sometimes he could fall asleep watching this display of beauty, and wake up back in his bed, his mother having found him in the night and brought him back to his room.  
  
But this year, he wasn't allowed outside. Nevertheless, this could have made the lives of his elders easier, though it would make him sick. But with no doubt, this had crossed some of their minds.   
  
His loneliness had almost caused young Marroc to go on a pranking spree, had he not remembered so well what had happened with his last one. So, instead, all he did was sit on his bed, sulking, or sometimes reading.   
  
He wondered whether his elf friends had come to see him, but not finding him, had left, not to return until a later date, or perhaps ever. He wondered this a lot, that is, until one night, as he lay awake on his soft, goose feather mattress.   
  
A tapping came to the window above his bed, jerking Marroc out of a sort of trance. He sat up and looked out.  
  
The dove he had once saved sat upon the sill, snow piling up around it. It looked at him, expectantly, almost, as though he should've known that it was coming, and why it was coming. And suddenly... he did.  
  
Lastriel was here.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
He ran through the yard on his way to the Old Forest, bundled up as best as he could manage on his own. The dove fluttered ahead of him, leading him, though he knew where he was going.   
  
It was so cold. His teeth chattered fiercely as he pulled the warm cloak around himself, the very points of his ears freezing and stinging. The bitter air seemed to bite through his skin and eat away his bones and insides. But the adrenaline pulsing through him was sooo pleasant.   
  
He knew if he were to be caught, his mother would kill him. It amused him the slightest to think about which limb she would remove first in his mind as he ran, tumbling along after the little white flit.  
  
The woods thickened gradually around him and the falling snowflakes got caught in his hair and long eyelashes, chilling him even more so as his head grew wetter and wetter.  
  
His feet lead him to the well-known path to his secret grove, where the Fairy Tree was. And just below the long spindly branches sat Lastriel.  
  
She was so beautiful, in her long robes of the exiled grey, snowflakes caught in her long, glorious hair as she stroked the rough bark of the old Yew, which seemed to be creaking loudly in the wind. She looked around just in time to be tackled in a massive bear hug by a tiny hobbit, though luckily she caught herself before falling over.  
  
"Ah! There you are, my little one!" She cried, "Why didn't you wait here for me? I have been expecting you all day!" she ruffled his curls.  
  
"I had the sicky," was Marrocs reply, "An' my uncle wouldn't let me leave the house, so I had to sneak." He stared at her for a moment, in her light robes and cloth boots; her pale hands seemingly to be whiter then the snow, "Aren't you cold?"  
  
Lastriel smiled, "Elves don't get cold."  
  
Marroc tried to process this thought, as she surveyed him over him, eyeing the sling for a minute, "What happened with your arm?" she asked.  
  
Marroc blinked, "Had a swword fight with my cousin, an' he stabbed me on accident," was the reply, but he continued, "But I'm so happy you're finally back! I missed you... I been so lonely. Me da got sent away 'cause he was roughin' me up, and Uncle Saradoc made him go away, and is takin' care of me and Mum, whos really sick still, and Merry won't talk to me no more, 'cause I tried to make him eat dung-filled mushrooms." He said all this in one breath.   
  
The elf stared blankly at him, "You're father was beating you?"  
  
Marroc blinked, then flushed, "It was only once. He hit me..."  
  
"For no reason?"  
  
"He...he was upset! My mumma was sick... I came in to kiss her goodnight...and he started yelling...saying she was gonna die if I didn't go away... and I...my eyes got wet... and he yelled at me even more, 'cause he said I wasn't supposed to cry..." Marroc felt his mind spinning... he seemed to forget where he was... why was he so cold? He was falling... falling... his eyes blacked out, suddenly, and he had no idea what was going on...  
  
Sharp voices bit through his head  
  
"Is he ill?"  
  
"I dunno!"  
  
"Hand him over to me. I know his father... I can take him home..."  
  
"His fathers gone, he says. He was beating him."  
  
"Tarroc? Beat his own son?"   
  
"That's what he said! Been living with his uncle."  
  
"Must be at Brandyhall. Give him over, Lastriel. I shall take him there."  
  
"No, Gildor!"  
  
"And why not?"  
  
"He was not supposed to be out! They'll whip him, I'm sure."  
  
"He'd deserve it. Awful little trouble maker."  
  
There was a short silence before Gildor spoke again, "Besides, where would you take him? Northernways?"   
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"He HAS got family, you know. Whatever would they do if he suddenly went missing and never returned?"  
  
"*I* could be his family! I could teach him everything he'd ever need to learn! He could be... he could be... an elf-hobbit!" Marroc felt her grip around him grow tighter.  
  
There came a heavy sigh from Gildor, "Lastriel-"  
  
"NO! Gildor! I will NOT let you ruin this! You ruin everything! YOU are the one who exiled my mother! YOU took away my brother from me!" She fell quiet for a moment, thinking, "Besides, Marroc is fairer and slenderer than most of his kind... he could easily be mistaken for an elf child... MY child..."   
  
There was an even longer silence, before, "Lastriel... you know this is impossible. He is a hobbit. He belongs in the Shire. With his family.'  
  
Neither said anything. Marroc was cold. He shivered in Lastriels arms, and she, this movement plucking her maternal heartstrings, held him tighter, and a cold, glistening tear dripping from her eyes. She held him tight just a moment longer, before outstretching her arms. Gildor reached out to take him, but she stopped.  
  
"Promise me this first, Gildor..."  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Marroc would never know how he happened to go out in Lastriels arms and wake up in his own bed at Brandyhall again. Perhaps it had been a dream? Perhaps she hadn't come...?  
  
~No...~ He told himself stubbornly over and over in his head ~She was there... she was real... she held me and someone else as there... they were talking... I don't remember-~  
  
But his thoughts were interrupted as the door creaked. He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but found his whole body weak and hurting as he moved... ~What the...?~. His chest and ribs felt like someone far larger then he had kicked them repeatedly and with no mercy. His head spun and spun, until he felt his elbow give way and he collapsed, hitting his head on the headboard.  
  
He seemed to be spinning even more...he whimpered, and the person who had entered rushed over to his side.  
  
"Don't try an' get up, lad... you're too weak..."  
  
He opened his eyes, and found his own father leaning over him....  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
A/N: Hahahahahahaha...hahahahahaha... boogers, I have to go.   
  
~Hippy 


	14. The Trip

~*~*~*~  
  
Marrocs Tale  
  
Chapter 13: The Trip  
  
By Hippy Hobbit  
  
Dedicated to Niph  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
One year came and went. Maggie, despite the predictions of the Healers, lived to see spring. And then summer and fall after that. It seemed as though when the weather got warmer and the flowers began to bloom, so did Maggies health and spirits. Or it just could've been the fact that Tarroc was back. Not only home, but also back to his nice, old self.  
  
  
  
The fact that his father had finally gotten his head back together hardly seemed to pass through Marrocs head. He kept his distance, no matter how much Tarroc would apologize. He wasn't actually rude to his father, he just... detached, forlorn, dejected...any of those words would work to describe the little ones mood towards his father. He never spoke, only nodding if Tarroc were to speak to him first, but never making eye contact. He spent most of his time away from home, either out in the woods or along the bank of the Brandywine with his Brandybuck cousins, or sometimes, even journeying to Tookland to see Pippin. He no longer felt the need to be with his mother every waking minute of every single day, simply because of the fact that his father was home all day to take care of her whenever she might feel the slightest bit ill. He worked his shifts at night, patrolling the boarders of the Old Forest carefully and quietly, from the back of the fine young mare he'd bought upon his return to the Shire from a private pony-breeder. The beasts name was Storm.  
  
Storm was a vicious, ornery creature. Her fur and mane were a dark, soulless ebony color, and her eyes seemed to glow red with malice if one were to look at them long enough. The whole thought of her made Marroc tremble- and he thoroughly avoided going into the stables now, keeping Butch inside with him (despite his mother's protests), as to not have to face this very embodiment of evil.  
  
Marroc was now the proper age of seven years old. Not old, you may say, but not too young anymore, either, as his older cousins saw it. For some reason, he was now more liked by his Brandybuck cousins. Even Merry seemed friendlier towards him. He didn't know if it was because of his age (this could be highly doubted...they'd always thought him queer before...why stop now?) or if it was because of the infamous mushroom-prank, a story which would be re-told for generations of Brandybucks, but all-and-all, his cousins were a lot nicer to him whenever he managed to journey to Brandyhall to see them.  
  
The weather was starting to get cold once more. It was now mid-autumn and most of the leaves had fallen from the trees. Old gaffers and gammas could be seen sitting on their porches, predicting when the first snowfall would come, with their scarves and shawls all pulled about them and sometimes a pipe in the mouths of the gaffers as they huffed smoke rings out into the cold air.  
  
Marroc had developed a slight cough in the last week. He'd spent this time at Tookland with Merry to see Pip once again.   
  
The Tooks were always very fascinated with the two lads when they came to visit. But it wasn't always a good sort of fascination. Some thought them silly Bucklanders, playing around in their boats and such. But others, especially the younger lads, were spellbound in a good way.  
  
One of these hobbits was Tollibard Took, newest member of the Thains' escort. The two Bucklanders awed him incredibly, as he had never yet been across the Brandywine before. It interested him in the way they dressed, as it was far different from those of the Tooklanders- the wool was smoother and far more comfortable (it was taken from the front of the sheep, where the fibers are farther apart, giving more air room and making it smoother). Their speech was also different- they hardly pronounced their 'R's.  
  
But he disliked the whole boat-thing, and at first, he flatly refused to take them across the Brandywine, though in the end, he figured that they might tell their uncle, and he would kick him off the escort. So, Tollibard Took braved the ferry for the first (but not last) time in his life.  
  
As they finally entered the Hall, one of the maids rushed over to Marroc, 'Mr. Marroc, you're parents are waiting in the Masters Study for you.'  
  
Marroc blinked, 'Why for?' he asked. He had planned to stay the night here, at the hall, as the journey was too long to go for such a little one during the night.  
  
But the maid didn't answer him; she just bustled off to tend to some of the children who were up way past their bedtimes.  
  
Marroc left Tolly and Merry in the foyer and went in the direction of the Masters Study. It was not far from the entrance, nor anywhere near the more residential parts of the hall, but positioned just right so that the large window in the study faced out over the top of the Hill, over the many fields and orchards owned by the Brandybucks, and down on to the Brandywine.   
  
Marroc took his time walking there, in no hurry to see his father, as he ever was. He stopped every now and then, looking at pictures on the wall, or whatever else could capture his attention at the moment. But finally, the inevitable came to happen. He stood before the door of the Masters Study, staring at it, a bead of sweat on his forehead. In there was his mother... his beautiful, kind, sweet mother. And also his father. His cruel-hearted wicked father. He opened the door slowly and stepped in, taking a deep breath as he did so.  
  
Saradoc was sitting at his desk, looking calm and cool. He had a mug of warm tea set in front of him and a few scones as well. Across from him in two comfy armchairs was Maggie and Tarroc, who were looking a little tired, but still happy. Maggie stood up from her chair when Marroc walked in and strode over to him, wrapping him up in a big hug.  
  
'Hey Sweetheart...' she cooed, kissing his forehead. Marroc felt himself blush a little, but then remembered that none of his cousins were around to laugh at him. He smiled up at his mother, fondly and she mussed his curls.  
  
'Come sit down,' Saradoc said, gesturing to another armchair, which was right by Tarroc. Marroc regarded the chair with a bit of a frightened look for a moment, before doing what he was told, though he scooted over a tiny bit afterwards. Tarroc pretended not to notice.  
  
'Son,' he said, 'Your mother and I have decided to take a trip down to Tuckbourgh this year for Yuletide, and while we're gone, we want you to stay here, at Brandyhall.'  
  
Marroc blinked. Well, that was nice. Leave me alone for the holidays. Thanks for caring, Father. He scowled inwardly, his bright eyes casting downwards. Though Brandybucks'd surround him for Yule, he knew that the lot of them would be spending the day with their immediate family- mothers, fathers and their children. That would leave Marroc alone all day until supper, which was spent in the Great Hall with the entire population of Brandyhall. His uncle must've caught the sigh because he immediately added in, 'You'll be with us all day, Marroc-Lad... Merry, Auntie Essy and myself... you'll not be alone, lad...' he said, in a mostly hopeful tone.  
  
'Uhh... Oi think Oi'd like ta talk wit Marroc alone fer a moment...' Tarroc said quickly standing up. Marroc followed his father out into the hallway, nervously. He tried to stop shaking, but found it useless to try to stop. As Tarroc shut the door behind them, he looked at his quivering son.  
  
'Marroc-Lad,' he said, firmly, 'Look, this is really important to yewr mother that the two of us spend this time together this Yuletide...Oi...Oi doubt she'll be here next year...' Marroc felt a sting in his heart, and for the first time in over a year, he spoke to his father.  
  
'B-but... she looks better!' he cried, indignantly. Tarrocs eyes drooped to the ground, 'Oi know... but she's getting worse. The Healers say so... and everyday, she tells me...well, nevermind.'  
  
'What does she say?' Marroc demanded. The tone of his voice astounded his father, and even frightened him. He started to stutter, until Marroc gave him a glare that'd break glass.  
  
'It-it-it's really none of yewr business, lad...but... she thinks she is going to die...knows it, actually...'  
  
Marroc stared at him and he felt his left eye twitch. He bit his lip hard. Tarroc stared back.  
  
'Son... I...' he took one step towards Marroc, and the little Took turned tail and ran away from him. Away from everything. The pain. The sorrow. He ran.  
  
(A/N: Ackk, I suffer from COS- Comma Overload Syndrome...also, I do believe Marroc has ADHD...  
  
Niph: Good points. But there is a very specific reason Lastriel is that way, and you'll find out as the story progresses...  
  
DaneGohan: Hmmm... well, as you can tell by this chapter, Marroc is not going to be an elf-hobbit... not now at least *evil laughter* Well, actually, I wasn't planning on it, but that would make a good sort of spin-off, wouldn't it? Hmm... all I have to say now is... MORE KIRK!  
  
Elessar*Lover: Lol, Thanks! I'm glad you love it, but sometimes it takes a while for me to update 'cause I'm really busy all the time...   
  
Sam the Comic Relief Midget: Thanks!  
  
Please review...  
  
~Hippy Hobbit)) 


	15. Marcho

~*~*~*~  
  
Marrocs Tale  
  
By Hippy Hobbit  
  
Chapter 14:  
  
Dedicated to Niph  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Marroc ran until he couldn't see, he was so tired. His chest hurt and wheezed when he tried to breathe, forcing him to slow down, though when he stopped, all that happened was he sunk to his knees instead of staying standing. He coughed and felt a nasty bile taste in the back of his throat. Gagging, he leaned over and threw up. It seemed the wonderful mushroom soup and biscuits he'd had for dinner in Tookland had decided they no longer needed to stay in his stomach.  
  
He lay back, exhausted. Never before had he run that hard and far in his life...he no longer knew where he was, but it was somewhere in the forest- he'd passed his faerie tree eons ago, it seemed. He closed his eyes and moaned. His stomach hurt and so did his head...and his heart. But it wasn't the sort of 'emotional' pain he'd felt back at Brandyhall... his heart was throbbing, but each time it did, it hurt him so very much that he wanted to die, just to stop the pain. He turned on his side and threw up again.   
  
Marroc rubbed his burning chest and wiped sweat from his forehead, gasping for air. He coughed; choking on his own spit, and then turned over on his other side. He lost his stomach for the 3rd and final time.  
  
A light snow suddenly began to fall and Marroc groaned. The chilly air hurt his lungs and teeth when he breathed in, and his heart was still throbbing painfully. It felt as though someone was stabbing him repeatedly in the chest. He moaned and writhed, his fingers digging deep into the muddy soil, letting pain shoot through his body, twitching and moaning furiously.  
  
And then...suddenly...the pain stopped. His eyes glazed over...his body stopped convulsing and he laid there, eyes wide and unfocused, as though his soul had suddenly left his body. But he WAS still alive- he was breathing, shallowly and thinly. Only his mind had left.  
  
He wandered this strange land that lay in the back of his mind for many years, it seemed, but he had no conception of real time. For a while, the thought that he might have died and this place was Heaven passed through his brain... there was no pain anymore, after all... ahh... bliss...  
  
But then there was a SNAP and a most unpleasant thing it was. The pain came back to him and he let out a gasp, his eyes widening. He didn't know how long he lay there, but it had to have been a while- snow was halfway covering his body and he was soaked from it. He sat up, groggily. He knew he had to move...or else he'd die.  
  
~It wouldn't be that bad, though, would it?~ a hauntingly silky voice asked him. Marroc thought about it for a moment... would it really be that bad? He found himself being slowly seduced by the voice... it was right after all... his arms, which he used to prop himself up began to slip a little.  
  
But now a new voice entered his mind... a woman's voice... it was...his mother? No. Couldn't be. His mother's was slightly deeper. It had to be Lastriel's voice...  
  
~NO! DON'T YOU DIE ON ME, MARROC TOOK!~ she scolded him, and her tone frightened him so badly that he snapped from his 'trance' letting out a little squeak as he did so.  
  
Before he knew it, he was standing on his feet, and then a moment later, running again. He didn't know why... but it hurt him so bad and his legs and lungs screamed out in protest, yet he ignored them. Something told him to run. And he decided to obey that something.  
  
The adrenaline that pumped through his veins was radical, to the point where he could no longer feel the pain...in fact, all he could feel was the cold wind on his face and the occasional snowflake.  
  
His legs, however, were growing weaker and after about 10 minutes, they decided they couldn't take any more grief. He collapsed, sprawling forward. His head connected with something hard and cold...a rock?  
  
Red blood spilled down his forehead. He brought a shaking hand to the wound and closed his eyes. The world was spinning so fast and bright lights were shining whenever Marroc opened his eyes. He tried to focus on one of the lights, but when he tried, it darted away, like a bashful faerie. His head hurt, and for the first time after his 'trance', he felt pain. His whole body was tight and sore. His face and hair were muddy and his forehead was bleeding profusely.  
  
After a moment, the lights finally flew away and he was left staring at the cold hard surface...a tombstone.  
  
'MARCHO'  
  
'BRILLENT LEADER; GEM AMOUNG HOBBITS'  
  
Marroc read the words and then traced over them with his fingers.  
  
Covering the 'M' was a big splatter of dark red blood.  
  
'Marcho?' he asked the tombstone, letting blood drip on to his fingers. He'd never heard of a 'Marcho' before in his family history...he thought harder about it...where were the dates?  
  
But then, suddenly, his head started to spin again. He tried to stay focused on March's name, but as he tried, it started changing.   
  
'MARCHO'  
  
'MAGCHO'  
  
'MAGCIO'  
  
'MAGGIO'  
  
'MAGGIE'  
  
'NO, MUMMA!' Marroc cried and began beating the stone with his little fists. He began pounding harder and harder, but the letters did not change any more. His hands began to bruise, but all that he did was hit harder and harder. They started to bleeding, just scratching at first, but he didn't notice. He started to beat his already injured head now and blood splattered all over his white shirt and the snow around him.  
  
He choked, and then cried out his mother's first name. The shout was shrill and loud, so loud that it echoed off the trees and the nearly-frozen Brandywine. So loud that it made him loose his last bit of strength, and he passed out, hitting his head one last time on the tombstone. So loud that the hobbits Tarroc had gathered to help him search for his son heard and went running, quickly loosing their fear of the Old Forest...  
  
(A/N: Poor Marroc. Mental breakdowns... not fun. I had one about a year ago *sighs*   
  
DaneGohan: Storm is going to play a very, very big part in the next few chapters, but I DO like to babble as well #^.^#  
  
How long will Marroc's 'friendships' last? Well, you'll have to see. Also, replying to your review on 'Occupation' I have read about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. I love all those old poems about King Arthur and his knights. Also, there is a very specific reason I chose to use wolves as the allegory for the hobbits... you'll just have to see why ^^  
  
Niph: Even worse in this chapter, huh? I love torturing hobbits ^^  
  
Thanks you's go to:  
  
Random23; elessar*lover 


	16. Taking Their Leave

~*~*~*~  
  
Marroc's Tale  
  
By Hippy Hobbit  
  
Chapter 15:  
  
Dedicated to Niph  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
'No...I don't know... I don't think I want to go...let's just stay home...'  
  
Maggie sat on the edge of her sons bed, one arm draped over his sick, little body. Red blood still seeped through the fresh white bandages on his hands and forehead. His eyelids were drooping and one hand was feebly stuffed into his mother's. He let out a little moan in his near-sleep state.  
  
Tarroc watched the two of them, his eyes narrowed. Part of this was from jealousy- Maggie was giving Marroc all the attention that HE deserved. After all, HE had planned this outing for THEM.  
  
'No, Maggie.' He said, firmly to his wife. It was the mid-morning on the night after Marroc's breakdown. The search party Tarroc had put together had found him, bleeding profusely and out cold, death seeming to just hover above his little, broken body.  
  
Tarroc had feared his son would not make it through the night, and he told Saradoc privately that his whole family seemed to be dying before his eyes.  
  
Most unfortunately, Maggie had heard them talking and had gone half into hysterics, and half into a screaming rage at her husband. It was only when the poor Master, who was caught in the middle of it all, had suggested to Maggie that her shouting would in no way help her son recover that she finally calmed down.  
  
'Tarroc! I'm worried!' The Sun was currently peeking over the horizon and the two were supposed to be leaving now on their trip.  
  
'Maggie! We've- I'VE been planning this trip for MONTHS! I am NOT going to let HIM ruin it!'  
  
Maggie let out a tiny sob, before choking out, 'B-b-but Tarroc! Marroc...'  
  
'...You'll not do him no good, staying here and worrying over him like this!'  
  
But Maggie refused to leave her little boy's side,  
  
'I WILL NOT GO!' she held Marroc close to her, waking him up, 'HE IS SICK, TARROC! I WILL NOT LEAVE MY SON IN THE HANDS OF STRANGERS WHILE HE'S ILL!'  
  
'HE'S KNOWN THESE PEOPLE ALL HIS LIFE, MAGGIE!'  
  
'NO! NONONONO NO!'  
  
In the end, however, there was a compromise. Maggie was allowed to stay by her sons side until his health started improving, which turned out to be three days. Three long days. They decided on that night at dusk, they would leave for Tuckbourgh, but Maggie had only agreed to go if they would only stay until Yule-, which was another three days. It was agreed to, though Tarroc would've rather gone for a fornight, which had been the original plan.   
  
At their final night at Brandyhall, Maggie was in tears. Meriadoc carried Marroc out, wrapped in layers of blankets, to say good-bye to his parents. The boy probably had a good 8-10 wool blankets wrapped around his tiny self, until the point where it was near-impossible for him to move. He also had two hot potatoes in his trouser pockets, to keep his hands warm when he put them in there, and another in his shirt pocket, to keep his chest warm. He also held a hot toddy in his mittened hands, as Healer Fillibold had refused to let him out of bed at first, and had only let him after he made sure that Marroc was properly 'wrapped' and 'stuffed'.  
  
Marroc lay his head on his elder cousins shoulder, rather tired. His eyelids drooped a little and he yawned widely.  
  
Many blankets and sweaters also covered his mother, who was starting to get sick again. But she smiled and kissed Marroc on the tip of his nose.  
  
'Bye baby...' she cooed, taking him from Merry's arms and hugging him tightly, '...you be good for Merry and Auntie Essy,' she kissed his nose again.  
  
'Yeah. Be good.' Tarroc added, his tone flat and even a little sour. He reached over to ruffle Marroc's curls, but his son pulled away sharply, with a wince.  
  
Tarroc drew back as well. He'd forgotten about the wounds on Marroc's head. He muttered an apology, then turned away and started hooking Storm up to the sleigh.  
  
'You're taking THAT beast?!' came a little voice.  
  
Tarroc and Maggie spun around to look at their son, who had been placed back into his cousin's arms.  
  
The lad's eyes were wide and Storm gave a loud *SNORT* of disapproval at the boy.  
  
'Yeah...' Tarroc muttered. He seemed rather put out that his prized mare had been called a 'beast'.  
  
But Maggie noted the uneasy tone of Marrocs voice, 'Something wrong, dear?'  
  
'She...she...she'd a DEVIL!' Marroc squeaked, rather boldly.  
  
Tarroc's face turned red.  
  
'SHE IS NOT!' he argued indignantly, turning around and looking his son straight in the eye. Marroc quivered and sort of ducked his head away, grabbing one hand at Merry's chest.  
  
'Tarroc!' Maggie lay a soothing hand on her husbands arm. She whispered a few short words to him, causing him to mutter something angrily back. She rolled her eyes and stepped one foot on to the sleigh, boosting herself up.  
  
'Bye, beloved...' she cooed again to her son, who, after seeing his mother try and calm his father down, had turned his head back towards the sleigh, but did not remove his hand from Merry's chest, 'And you as well, Meriadoc. See you both in a few days.'  
  
Tarroc grumbled his goodbyes to his son and his nephew, and then climbed up on the sleigh next to Maggie. He took the reigns in both his hands and Storm started to walk, though her owner had done nothing. A sudden, quick fear lit up Tarrocs eyes, but it died away, seeing as how she hadn't done anything else.  
  
'Hmm... pro'lly never lead a sleigh...' Merry heard him grumble to himself, in explantion.  
  
'Bye, you two!' Maggie called, cheerily back, as Tarroc called 'YAH!' and Storm broke into a run. The two boys watched as the sleigh disappeared off into night.  
  
'Well, Marroc.... We'd better get back inside before we have to face the wrath of Filli.' Merry said, boosting Marroc up so he wouldn't drop him.  
  
'Merry... do you think Storm is evil?'  
  
Merry gave his little cousin a small smile, 'Whatever you think.'  
  
(A/N: Ugh... I do not like that Storm. She reminds me of a Black Rider horse *shudders*. So...what do you think will happen next, hm?  
  
And now for reviews-  
  
Niph: I do fear Lastriel isn't in this episode, nor will she be in the next... but she'll be in one of the next couple... I don't know exactly how far ahead... but hopefully soon ^^  
  
Random thanks go to:  
  
Pipinheart (shana4037@aol.com) elessar*lover  
  
Good wishes-  
  
Hippy) 


	17. This Cold

~*~*~*~  
  
Marroc's Tale  
  
Chapter 16: This Cold  
  
By Hippy Hobbit  
  
Dedicated to Niph  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Storm trotted determinedly through the piling snow as Maggie snuggled closer to her husband. It felt good. Just being them, and being alone. Tarroc draped an arm around his wife and kissed her cheek.  
  
'Its getting better already, isn't it, m'love?' he asked her in a soft whisper.  
  
Maggie's beautiful Brandybuck smile naturally agreed with him. She laid her head on his shoulder.  
  
'Maggs?'  
  
'Hmm?'  
  
'Do...do yew ever think back to the old times?'  
  
'Old times?'  
  
'Before...Marroc was born?'  
  
Maggie gave her husband a hard look.  
  
'You regret having him.'  
  
Tarroc looked abashed.  
  
'N-no! Not a'tall!'  
  
But Maggies eye bore into him.  
  
'I...I wish it was just us again...' he stammered, '...Marroc...he's...stressful...'  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Merry plunked his little cousin down on the armchair, not bothering to take the blankets off him, even though a hearty fire burned bright in the grate. He then sat down on a sofa directly across from Marroc and withdrew a blue-covered book from under the pillows and began to read.  
  
Marroc stared at his cousin, suddenly becoming aware that he couldn't move at all, and it was getting rather hot...  
  
'Merry?'  
  
'Hm?'  
  
"I...blankets?' he asked, starting to sweat.  
  
'No.'  
  
'Please?' he squeaked. It was starting to get hard for him to breathe.  
  
'No, Marroc. I know what you'll do if you're able to move!'  
  
Marroc looked inquisitively at his cousin, forcing him to continue, 'You'll cause mischief! I know you too well, Marroc. And tonight...I am in NO mood AT ALL to put up with it!'  
  
There was a short silence, before-  
  
'Pretty please?'  
  
'NO!'  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
'A lot like you then, hm?' Maggie said, rather then asked in a rather chagrined tone, drawing away from her husband and crossing her arms over her chest, 'like father, like son? Do you ever realize the stress YOU cause HIM? Do you even know how frightened he is of you? You scare him bloody witless, Tarroc!'  
  
Tarroc was taken aback by this outburst, and also by his wife's language. He had never heard her swear before...and they had known each other for about 25 years!  
  
'Maggie...Oi...' the clear fact that he did not understand shone in his eyes.  
  
'He thinks you'll him 'im again, if he ever does anything out of line! What you did that night was terribly wrong, Tarroc!' she stopped for a moment, noticing that tears had formed in her eyes.  
  
'I'll be surprised if he is ever right in the head again, after what you did.'  
  
Tarroc visibly shrank back at Maggies tone. His eyes stared up at her, innocent and frightened, so reminiscent of her son's.  
  
'Maggie...Oi...' the sleigh gave a sharp jerk. Tarroc pulled quickly on the reigns, 'Whoa-a Stormy! Whoa there!' he called, slowing the over-sized pony down and nearly coming to a halt. Storms fiery eyes lit up and she bucked, angry with this. The whole sleigh flew up and then came back down. Maggie shrieked, grabbing one side of the sleigh and her husbands arm as the sleigh went into the air for a second time.  
  
Tarroc stood.  
  
'Hey, now, Stormy!' he yelled, trying to calm her to the best of his ability. Nothing worked, however as she bucked again, this time much harder.  
  
'TARROC!' Maggie screamed, tears starting in her eyes. She was a brave lass, but horses were among the things she feared most.   
  
'TARROC, DAMMIT!'  
  
'MAGGIE! I'M TRYING!' Tarroc yelled back as Storm started to jump and thrash some more. Tarroc near lost his balance, and he pulled ####### the reigns, hurting the horse. She broke into a run and Maggie fell, sprawling from the sleigh.  
  
'MAGGIE!' Tarroc screamed out his wife's name. He wrenched the reigns, forcing Storm to turn about. This flung Tarroc from the sleigh, as it its self flipped over entirely. The hobbit was tossed like a rag doll. The reigns tightened themselves fast around Tarrocs hands.  
  
He screamed in pain as he was dragged, only a few hundred yards, but it could've been a few hundred miles. His left arm was wrenched from its socket, causing him immense pain.  
  
Storm turned again, in absolutely fury at dragging this heavy sleigh AND the hobbit with her. She bucked and bayed, thrashing and running and writhing.  
  
Dimly, through his almost unconscious state, Tarroc could hear Maggie yelling and screaming from somewhere farther off. But he was still being dragged, and he could do nothing.  
  
Suddenly, as if by magic, his eyes opened and a sharp rock, half buried in the snow seemed to come out of nowhere. With a loud *THUD*, it collided with his head.  
  
And he knew no more. His hands fell loose from the ropes and Storm ran off, into the night.  
  
Maggie, who had actually not been as far away as Tarroc had originally thought, crawled over to him, sobbing.  
  
'Tarroc...oh my love...' she lay her head on his chest. She knew she could do nothing... both her legs were snapped. And it was...so...cold...  
  
'It IS just us now, m'love...'  
  
THE END  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
(A/N: AHHH! Don't get mad! There'll be more Marroc! This is just the ending of Part 1... the end of his short childhood, as the new title is.  
  
Marrocs Tale: Part 2 will be out shortly!  
  
~Hippy Hobbit 


End file.
